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"HOW  EASY  SHE  GOES!  "  —  See  p.  17. 


JIMMYJOHNS, 


AND   OTHEE  STOKIES. 


BY 

MRS.  A.  M.  DIAZ, 

AUTHOK  OF  "  THE  WILLIAM  HENRY  LETTERS,"  "  LUCY  MAEIA,"  ETC. 


Illustrated. 


BOSTON: 
JAMES    R.    OSGOOD    AND    COMPANY, 

(Late  TICKNOR  &  FIELDS,  and  FIELDS,  OBGOOD,  &  Co.) 
1878. 


COPYEIGHT,  1877,  BY 
JAMES    K.    OSGOOD    &    CO. 

ALL  BIGHTS  BESEBVED. 


STEREOTYPED  AND  PRINTED  BT 

BAND,  AVBBY,  AND   COMPANY, 

117  FHANKLIN  STBEET, 

BOSTON. 


CONTENTS. 


THE  JIMMY  JOHNS: —  Pa&e> 

I.  A  Morning  with  the  Jimmy  Johns       .        .        .11 

II.   The  Sad  Fate  of  "  Polly  Cologne"         .        .        18 

III.  An  Account  of  the  Jimmyjohns'  Little  Affair 

with  the  Gulls 26 

IV.  The  Jimmyjohns'  Sailor-Suits        ...         35 
V.  A  Leaf  from  a  Little  Girl's  Diary       ...    46 

VI.   A  Little  Girl's  Story 50 

VII.   The  Bad  Luck  of  Bubby  Cryaway      ...    57 

VIII.   What  made  Mr.  Tompkins  laugh  ...         66 

IX.   Mr.  Tompkins' s  Small  Story       .        .        .        .76 

FLOWERS  WAKING  UP  .       .       .       .       .       .        80 

THE  LITTLE  PULLWINGER'S  DREAM 85 

How  THE  BARN  CAME  FROM  JORULLO  ...  95 
A  POTATO  STORY  WHICH  BEGINS  WITH  A  BEAN-POLE  .  107 
THE  WAY  MRS.  MACGARRET'S  TEA-PARTY  WAS  BROKEN 

UP 110 

GETTING  UP  IN  THE  WORLD 114 

THE  STORY  OF  FLORINDA 118 

THE  HOUSE  THAT  JACK  BUILT 134 

A  LITTLE  GUESS-STORY 147 

THE  LITTLE  BEGGAR-GIRL 152 

WIDE-AWAKE >.        .        .        .169 

KEASONS  WHY  THE  Cow  TURNED  HER  HEAD  AWAY  .      173 

5 

54246.1 


6  CONTENTS. 

Page. 

Two  LITTLE  KOGUES  . 179 

THE  BELATED  BUTTERFLY 182 

THE  MAPLE-TREE'S  CHILDREN 186 

THE  WHISPERER 189 

A  STRANGER  IN  PILGRIM-LAND,  AND  WHAT  HE  SAW  .    191 
DRAMAS  AND  DIALOGUES  :  — 

The  Gypsies.  —  A  May-Day  Drama  ....  205 
A  December  Charade.  — (Farewell.)  .  .  .  .221 
The  Little  Visitors.  —  A  Play  for  Young  Children  .  233 

The  Bird  Dialogue .242 

Shopping.  —  A  Dialogue  for  the  very  Little  Ones    .        250 
May-Day  Indoors  ;  or,   The   Yotopski  Family's  Re 
hearsal  255 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTBATTOJsTS. 


Page. 

"How  EASY  SHE  GOES  !".       .       .       .       .               .  2 

JOEY  MOONBEAM,  DOROTHY  BEESWAX,  BETSEY  GINGER, 

AND  POLLY  COLOGNE  ....'..  22 

THE  JlMMYJOHNS  AND  THE  GULLS 33 

"  THE  LITTLE  BOYS,  HALF  CRYING,  HELD  FAST  BY  THE 

SIDES  OF  THE  BOAT"  ^  43 
JOEY  MOONBEAM'S  NEW  HAT  .  .  ,  .  .  .47 

"  OVER  WENT  THE  BARREL,  AND  OVER  WENT  HE  "  .  63 

FLOWERS  WAKING  UP 80 

THE  BARREL-MAN  LOOKING  AT  HIS  POSSESSIONS  .  93 
THE  BARREL-MAN  CUTS  THE  BRANCHES,  AND  THE 

OWNER  COMPLAINS       .  .        .        .        .        .97 

THE  HORSES  AND  THE  OXEN  APPEAR  IN  SIGHT  .  101 

THE  FOURTEEN  HUNGRY  MEN  SIT  AROUND  THE  TABLE  105 

"A-SHAKING  THEIR  CORN-POPPERS   OVER   THE   COALS "     135 

THE  CAT  THAT  CAUGHT  THE  RAT 137 

THE  DOG  THAT  WAS  TOSSED 138 

THE  Cow  WITH  THE  CRUMPLED  HORN    .        .        .        .139 

THE  MAIDEN  ALL  FORLORN 140 

THE  MAN  ALL  TATTERED  AND  TORN  ....  142 
"  GOOD-MORROW,  SIR  PRIEST  !  WILL  You  MARRY  Us 

Two?" 145 

7 


8  LIST   OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

Page. 

THE  LITTLE  BEGGAR-GIRL 153 

"NOW  I'LL  PULL  UP;  NOW  I'M  ALMOST  UP "    .       .  171 

"TAKE  THIS  WISP  OF  HAY"   .        .        .       .       .        .  174 

"  FOREFATHERS'    KOCK ".          .                      .          .          .           .  196 

INDIAN  DOLL              200 


THE  JIMMYJOHNS,  AND  OTHEK  STOEIES. 


THE    JIMMYJOflNS, 


CHAPTER  I. 

A   MORNING   WITH   THE   JIMMYJOHNS. 

A  PRETTY  brown  cottage,  so  small  that  the  vines 
have  no  need  to  hurry  themselves  in  climbing 
over  it,  but  take  plenty  of  time  to  creep  along  the 
eaves,  to  peep  in  at  the  windows,  and  even  to  stop 
and  weave  bowers  over  the  doorways.  Two  "Bald 
win  "  trees  shade  one  end  of  the  cottage,  a  silver- 
oak  the  other.  In  its  rather  narrow  frontward  grow 
damask  rose-bushes,  sweet  syringas,  and  a  snowball- 
tree.  In  one  corner  of  this  front-yard  a  running-rose, 
called  a  "pink  prairie-rose,"  climbs  to  the  cottage- 
roof,  where  it  has  delightful  times  with  the  honey 
suckle  and  woodbine.  On  either  side,  and  round  about 
and  far  away,  lie  broad  green  meadows,  apple-orchards, 
fields  of  waving  corn,  and  many  a  sloping,  sunny  hill 
side,  on  which  the  earliest  wild  flowers  bloom.  Ah  !  it 
must  be  a  pleasant  thing  to  live  where  one  can  watch 
the  fields  grow  }Tellow  with  dandelions  and  buttercups, 
or  white  with  daisies,  or  pink  with  clover  ;  where  sweet- 
scented  honeysuckles  peep  in  at  one  window,  roses  at 
another,  and  apple-blossoms  at  another ;  where  birds 
sing  night  and  morning,  and  sometimes  all  the  day. 

11 


12  THJEl  'JIMMY  JOHNS. 

Between  the  hours  of  seven  and  eight,  one  lovely 
morning  in  June,  there  might  have  been  seen,  turning 
the  corner  of  Prairie-rose  Cottage,  two  travellers  on 
horseback,  each  of  whom  carried  a  huckleberry-basket 
on  his  arm.  These  two  travellers  were  of  just  the  same 
age, — four  years  and  ten  months.  The  horses  they 
rode  were  of  the  kind  called  saw-horses,  or,  as  some 
call  them,  wood-horses.  Both  names  are  correct,  be 
cause  they  are  made  of  wood,  and  wood  is  placed  upon 
them  to  be  sawed. 

Our  young  travellers  were  twin-brothers,  and  were 
named — the  one,  Jimmy  Plummer  ;  the  other,  Johnny 
Plummer.  They  were  dressed  exactly  alike,  and  they 
looked  exactly  alike.  Both  had  chubby  cheeks,  twin 
kling  eyes,  small  noses,  and  dark,  curly  hair.  Both 
wore  gray  frocks  belted  round  with  leather  belts,  and 
both  belts  were  clasped  with  shining  buckles.  Their 
collars  were  white  as  snow.  Their  trousers  were  short, 
leaving  off  at  the  knee,  where  they  were  fastened  with 
three  gilt  buttons.  Their  stockings  were  striped,  pink 
and  gray ;  the  gray  stripe  being  much  wider  than  the 
pink.  Their  boots  were  button-boots.  Their  hats 
were  of  speckled  straw ;  and  in  the  hat-band  of  each 
was  stuck  a  long,  narrow,  greenish  feather,  which 
looked  exactly  like  a  rooster's  feather.  Their  whip- 
handles  were  light  blue,  wound  round  with  strips  of 
silver  tinsel ;  and  at  the  end  of  each  lash  was  a  snap 
per.  Their  bridles  were  pieces  of  clothes-line. 

The  travellers  were  bound  to  Boston,  so  they  said,  to 
buy  oranges.  It  was  hard  work  to  make  those  horses 
of  theirs  go  over  the  ground.  There  isn't  very  much 
go  in  that  kind  of  horse :  they  are  sure-footed,  but  not 


A   MORNING   WITH   THE   JIMMYJOHNS.          13 

swift.  But  there  was  a  great  deal  of  make  go  in  the 
two  travellers.  They  jerked  that  span  of  horses,  they 
pushed  them,  they  pulled  them,  they  made  them  rear 
up,  they  tumbled  off  behind,  they  tumbled  off  the  sides, 
they  pitched  headforemost,  but  still  did  not  give  up ; 
and  at  last  came  to  Boston,  which  was,  so  they  made 
believe,  on  the  outside  cellar-door. 

And,  as  they  were  playing  on  the  cellar-door,  the 
funn}r  man  came  along,  and  began  to  feel  in  his  pockets 
to  see  what  he  could  find. 

' '  Halloo,  Jimmyjohns  !  "  he  cried.  ' '  Don't  you  want 
something  ? ' ' 

Jimmy  and  Joh nny  Plummer  were  best  known  in  the 
neighborhood  as  "the  Jimim Johns."  And  it  seemed 
very  proper  their  being  called  by  one  name ;  for  they 
looked,  if  not  just  like  one  boy,  like  the  same  boy  twice 
over,  so  that  some  members  of  their  own  family  could 
hardly  tell  them  apart.  They  were  always  together : 
what  one  did  the  other  did,  and  what  one  had  the  other 
had.  If  one  asked  for  pudding  four  times,  the  other 
asked  for  pudding  four  times  ;  and  when  one  wrould 
have  another  spoonful  of  sauce,  so  would  the  other. 
And  it  was  quite  wonderful,  everybody  said,  that,  in 
playing  together,  they  were  never  known  to  quarrel. 
People  often  tried  to  guess  which  was  Jimmy,  and 
which  was  Johnny  ;  but  very  few  guessed  rightly. 

The  funny  man  felt  in  every  one  of  his  pockets,  and 
found  —  a  piece  of  chalk.  The  Jimmyjohns  laughed. 
They  had  seen  him  feel  in  every  one  of  his  pockets 
before,  and  knew  that  nothing  better  than  chalk,  or 
buttons,  or  tack-nails,  would  come  out  of  them. 

"Now,"  said  the  funnyman,  "I'm  going  to  guess 


14  THE   JIMMY  JOHNS. 

which  is  Jimmy,  and  which  is  Johnny.  No,  I  can't 
guess.  But  I'll  tell  you  what  I  will  do.  I'll  turn  up  a 
cent.  There  it  goes.  See  here :  if  it  turns  up  head, 
this  sitting-down  boy's  Jimmy ;  tail,  he's  Johnny. 
Now  then.  Pick  it  up  out  of  the  grass.  Head?  Yes, 
head.  Then  this  sitting-down  boy's  Jimmy.  Right? 
Are  you  sitting-down  boy  Jimmy?  " 

"  No,  sir.    Johnny." 

"  Johnny?     How  do  you  know  you  are  Johnny?  " 

Johnny  laughed,  looked  down,  turned  up  the  corner 
of  his  frock,  and  showed  there  a  bit  of  red  flannel, 
about  the  size  of  a  red  peppermint,  stitched  on  the 
wrong  side.  Mrs.  Plummer,  it  seems,  had  put  red 
flannel  peppermints  on  Johnny's  clothes,  and  blue  flan 
nel  peppermints  on  Jimmy's,  so  that  each  could  tell  his 
own. 

The  funny  man  passed  on,  but  had  hardly  gone  ten 
steps  before  he  turned,  and  said  to  the  Jimnryjohns, 
"Why  don't  you  go  a-rowing?"  They  answered, 
because  they  had  no  boat.  He  told  them  Dan  took  a 
tub  for  a  boat.  Then  they  said  they  had  no  water. 
The  funny  man  was  just  at  that  moment  stepping  over 
the  fence ;  but  he  answered  back,  speaking  very  loud, 
"  Dan  plays  grass  is  water.1' 

The  Jimmyjohns  looked  at  each  other. 

"  Ask  him  what  oars  Dan  takes,"  said  Johnny. 

"  You  ask  him  too,"  said  Jimmy. 

So  they  called  out  both  together,  "  What  oars  does 
Dan  take?  "  And  then,  the  funny  man  being  b}T  that 
time  far  along  the  road,  they  scampered  to  the  fence, 
scrambled  up,  leaned  over  the  top-rail,  and  shouted 
loud  as  they  could,  "  WJiat  oars  does  Dan  take?  " 


A  MOENING  WITH  THE  JIMMYJOHNS.          15 

The  funny  man  turned,  held  one  hand  to  one  ear  to 
catch  the  sounds,  and  shouted  back,  speaking  one  word 
at  a  time,  "  Can't  —  hear  —  what  — you  —  sayl" 

i '  What — oars — does — DAN — T- A-K-E  ? ' '  bawled 
the  Jimmjjohns,  holding  on  to  the  last  word  as  long  as 
their  breath  lasted. 

' '  Takes  —  brooms  !  Dan  —  takes  —  BROOMS  !  ' ' 
the  funny  man  bawled  back ;  then  walked  away  quite 
fast. 

"  Cluck,  cluck,  cluck !  Cluck,  cluck,  cluck  !  Cluck- 
erty  cluck!  " 

That  was  what  it  sounded  like  ;  but  in  reality  it  was 
pretty  Banty  White  saying  to  her  chickens,  "Hurry 
back  !  Danger  !  Boys  !  Dreadful  clanger  !  " 

Madam  Banty  White  kept  house  under  a  tub  at  the 
back  of  the  house  ;  and  it  was  her  tub  which  was  going 
to  be  the  boat. 

"  Over  she  goes  !  "  cried  Jfimmy,  giving  it  a  knock. 

4 '  Cluck,  cluck,  cluck !  Cluck,  cluck,  cluck !  Cluckerty 
cluck  ! "  clucked  Madam  Banty.  "  Run  for  your  lives  ! 
For  your  lives  !  " 

"  Sister,  sister,  sister !  "  shouted  the  Jimmyjohns. 

Annetta  Plummer,  six  years  old  and  almost  seven, 
was  often  called  ' '  Sister, ' '  and  "  sometimes  ' '  Sissy 
Plummer."  Hearing  the  shouts,  sister  ran  to  the 
window,  calling  out,  "What  do  you  want,  you  little 
Jimmies  ?  ' ' 

Then  curly-headed,  three-years-old  EfRe  trotted  to 
the  window,  stood  on  her  tiptoes,  and  shouted  with  her 
cunning  voice,  "  What  oo  want,  oo  ittle  Dimmeys?  " 

"  Throw  down  two  brooms.     Quick's  }~ou  can !  " 

"  Little  boys  must  say  '  Please,'  "  said  Annetta. 


16  THE   JIM  MY  JO  HNS. 

"  Ittel  —  boys —  say  — ' Pease,'  "  repeated  Effie. 

"  Please,  please,  please,  please !  "  shouted  the  Jim 
mies.  Then,  k' Oh,  dear  !  Oh !  ma !  Oh,  dear!  Ma! 
ma  !  Oh !  Oh,  dear  !  oh,  dear  !  "  in  quite  a  different 
tone. 

All  the  people  came  running  to  the  window.  ' ;  Who's 
hurt  ?  What's  the  matter  ?  Oh,  they've  tumbled  down  ! 
they've  tumbled  down !  " 

The  flour-barrel  was  at  the  bottom  of  it  ah1 .  In  their 
hurry  to  get  the  brooms,  the  Jimmies  climbed  on  a 
flour-barrel  which  lay  upon  its  side.  It  rolled  over, 
and  they  rolled  over  with  it.  It  is  plain,  therefore, 
that  the  fiour-barrel  was  at  the  bottom  of  it  all. 

The  poor  Jinimyjolms  cried  bitterly,  arid  the  tears 
ran  streaming  down.  Still  the}7  were  not  hurt  badly, 
and  the  crying  changed  to  kissing  much  sooner  than 
usual.  To  explain  what  this  means,  it  must  be  told, 
that  when  the  Jimmies  were  little  toddling  things,  just 
beginning  to  walk,  they  were  constantly  tumbling  down, 
tipping  over  in  their  cradle,  or  bumping  heads  together  ; 
and  Mrs.  Plummer  found  that  the  best  way  to  stop  the 
ciying  at  such  times  was  to  turn  it  into  kissing.  The 
reason  of  this  is  very  plain.  In  crying,  the  mouth  flies 
open  ;  in  kissing,  it'  shuts.  Mrs.  Plummer  was  a  won 
derful  woman.  She  found  out  that  shutting  the  mouth 
would  stop  its  crying,  and  to  shut  the  mouth  she  con 
trived  that  pretty  kissing  plan,  and  at  the  first  sound  of 
a  bump  would  catch  up  the  little  toddlers,  put  their 
arms  round  each  other's  necks,  and  say,  "Kiss  Johnny, 
Jimmy;  kiss  Jimmy,  Johnny."  And  that  was  the 
way  the  habit  began.  They  had  not  quite  outgrown  it ; 
and  it  was  enough  to  make  anybody  laugh  to  see  them, 


A  MORNING  WITH  THE  JIMMYJOHNS.          17 

in  the  midst  of  a  crying  spell,  run  toward  each  other, 
their  cheeks  still  wet  with  tears,  and  to  see  their  poor 
little  twisted,  crying  mouths  trying  to  shut  up  into  a 
Mss. 

But  now  must  be  told  the  sad  fate  of  Banty  White's 
tub.  Alas  for  poor  Banty !  Nevermore  will  she  gather 
chicks  under  its  roof. 

Mrs.  Hummer,  it  seems,  allowed  the  Jimmies  to  take 
her  third-best  broom  and  the  barn  broom  to  row  with. 

"  Let's  go  way  over  there,  where  there's  some  good 
grass,"  said  Jimmy. 

"  So  I  say,"  said  Johnny.  "  How  shall  we  get  her 
over?" 

"  Take  the  reins,"  said  Jimmy. 

"  Oh,  yes  !  so  I  say,"  said  Johnny. 

The  reins  were  then  taken  from  the  tiorses,  and  tied 
to  one  tub-handle.  The  brooms  were  tied  to  the  other 
tub-handle,  and  so  dragged  behind.  The  Jimmies 
hoisted  the  tub  over  the  fence  into  the  field  of  ' '  good 
grass,"  squeezed  themselves  inside,  put  the  broom- 
handles  through  the  tub-handles,  and  began  to  row. 

After  rowing  a  while,  and  finding  "she  didn't  go 
any,"  they  thought  they  would  try  to  find  Dan,  and 
ask  him  how  he  "made  her  go."  So  the  tub  was 
hoisted  over  the  fence  again,  and  the  brooms  tied  on 
for  another  pull.  Both  took  hold  of  the  reins  ;  and  then 
away  they  ran  along  the  road,  up  hills  and  down  hills, 
to  find  Dan. 

"How  easy  she  goes!"  cried  Johnny  at  last  as 
they  were  rounding  a  corner. 

Both  turned  to  look,  and,  oh !  what  did  they  see  ? 
Alas  !  what  did  they  see?  —  two  hoops,  pieces  of  wood 


18  THE  JIMMYJOHNS. 

scattered  along  the  road,  and  the  brooms  far  behind. 
The  tub  had  fallen  apart,  and  the  hoops  that  bound  it 
were  rolling  away. 

The  brothers  Plummer  stood  still  and  gazed.  It  was 
all  they  could  do. 

"And  now  won't  it  be  a  tub  any  more?"  Johnny 
asked  at  last  very  soberly. 

"I  —  don't  —  I  guess  so,"  said  Jimmy.  "Maybe 
pa  can  tub  it  up  again." 

Each  boy  took  an  armful  of  the  pieces  (leaving  one 
that  neither  of  them  saw) ,  hung  a  hoop  over  his  shoul 
der,  and  in  this  manner  turned  to  go  home,  dragging 
the  brooms  behind. 

But,  finding  themselves  quite  near  aunt  Emily's, 
they  went  that  way,  and  made  a  call  at  the  house.  And 
very  good  reasons  they  had  for  doing  so.  One  reason 
was  a  puppy ;  one  reason  was  a  gold-fish ;  but  the 
sweetest  reason  of  all  was  aunt  Emily's  gingerbread. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE   SAD   FATE   OF    "  POLLY   COLOGNE." 

HIGH  times  at  Frame-rose  Cottage,  —  high  times 
indeed!  For  there  is  cousin  Floy  Plummer  on 
her  tiptoes  ;  and  there  is  little  Effie  Plummer  hurrying 
with  might  and  main  to  climb  to  the  top  of  the  bureau  ; 
and  there  are  the  twins,  the  Jimmyjohn  Plummers, 
scrambling  both  at  once  into  the  -baby's  dining-chair, 
tumbling  over  the  back  like  one  boy,  then  dividing  at 


THE  SAD  FATE  OF  "POLLY  COLOGNE."       19 

the  bottom  and  going  up  again  like  two  boys :  and  all 
these  trying  to  pinch  Annetta  Plummer's  ears,  and  to 
pinch  them  seven  times  too ;  for  Annetta  Plummer  is 
seven  years  old  this  very  day. 

Ever  since  morning,  a  little  girl  may  have  been  seen 
holding  two  hands  to  two  ears,  scampering  up  stairs 
and  down  stairs,  dodging  into  dark  corners,  behind 
doors,  behind  curtains,  behind  people,  racing  through 
the  garden,  hiding  among  the  currant-bushes,  among 
the  grass,  among  the  waving  corn,  in  the  barn,  in  the 
hen-house,  up  the  apple-tree,  up  the  ladder  ;  and  always 
have  gone  some  of  the  pincliers  after  her,  with  seven 
pinches  apiece  in  their  thumbs  and  fingers.  And  now, 
will  climbing  that  table  save  Miss  Seven-year-old  ? 

Hark !  Rover  is  barking  outside  !  O  Rover !  don't 
you  know  any  better  than  to  bark  at  the  party,  —  An- 
netta's  birthday -party  9  Look  at  old  Bose,  and  learn 
how  to  behave.  Old  Bose  never  barks  at  company ; 
and  he  is  six  times  bigger  than  you  are,  you  little, 
noisy,  capering,  frisky,  frolicsome  Rover!  Now  the 
Jimmyjohns  run  to  call  off  their  dog.  "  Here,  Rover ! 
Here,  ere,  ere,  ere  !  Rove,  Rove,  Rove  !  " 

And  now  the  company  have  come  in,  and  have  taken 
off  their  things,  and  have  told  Mrs.  Plummer  how  their 
mothers  do,  and  have  sat  down  quietly  in  a  row  of 
chairs.  Seven  of  them,  —  seven  bright  faces  so  rosy 
and  sweet !  seven  heads  of  hair  so  smooth  or  so  curly  ! 
seven  pairs  of  tidy  boots,  best  ones,  perhaps,  —  who 
knows  but  brand-new?  The  Jimmyjohns,  too,  have  on 
their  new,  slippery,  smooth-bottomed  button-boots  ;  and 
that  was  the  reason  of  their  falling  down  Awhile  they 
stood  almost  still,  or  rather  more  than  half  still,  watch 
ing  the  seven  little  girls  sitting  in  a  row. 


20  THE  JIMMYJOHNS. 

Ten  minutes  later.  All  out  on  the  green  spot,  where 
it  is  shady,  playing  "  Little  Sally  Waters  sitting  in  the 
sun."  Josephus  the  baby  (called  Josephus  while  wait 
ing  for  his  real  name)  stays  in  his  baby-carriage,  hear 
ing  them  sing,  watching  the  ring  go  round,  laughing, 
crowing,  patting  cakes  by  the  dozen.  When  the  Jim 
mies  choose  the  one  that  they  love  best  before  they 
close  their  eyes  to  rest,  Rover  rushes  into  the  middle, 
barking,  leaping  high,  as  if  he,  too,  were  going  to  kiss 
the  one  that  he  loved  best. 

Fifteen  minutes  later.  The}7,  are  playing  "Pretty 
fair  maid."  Dear,  dear!  what  a  charming  singsong 
goes  with  this  play !  What  a  lively,  chirruping  tune  ! 
"  Pretty  fair  maid,  will  you  come  up,  will  you  come  up, 
will  3^ou  come  up,  to  join  us  in  our  dances."  "  And 
now  we've  got  the  Queen  of  May,  the  Queen  of  May, 
the  Queen  of  May,  to  join  us  in  our  dances."  And 
then  the  last  part,  "  Green  grow  the  rushes  O  !  Never 
mind  the  blushes  O  !  "  Ah  !  who  would  not  be  a  little 
girl  at  a  party,  singing  "Pretty  fair  maid"  on  the 
green  spot  ? 

Half  an  hour  later.  All  out  in  the  orchard,  playing 
"keep  house."  They  divide  themselves  into  "  fami 
lies."  There  is  one  very  large  flat  rock  in  the  orchard, 
also  several  hollow  places  where  rocks  have  been  dug 
out.  Two  of  the  ' '  families ' '  take  each  a  hollow  to 
live  in ;  a  third  "  keeps  house  "  on  the  rock,  a  fourth 
under  a  haycock.  Oh,  what  good  times !  Only  two 
families  can  have  "  fathers,"  because  there  are  only 
two  boys.  The  other  "fathers,"  cousin  Floy  says, 
have  gone  to  Boston.  Cousin  Floy  manages  this  play. 
She  is  ten  years  old,  and  knows  how.  Cousin  Floy 


THE  SAD  FATE  OF   "POLLY  COLOGNE."       21 

goes  in  to  coax  Mrs.  Plummer  for  some  things  in  which 
to  dress  up  the  "  fathers  "  and  "  mothers/'  She  says 
it  will  do  if  the  heads  look  like  fathers'  and  mothers' 
heads,  and  no  matter  about  the  clothes.  Mrs.  Plum 
mer  lends  two  head-dresses,  also  ribbons  and  laces. 
Grandmother  Plummer  lends  a  cap  and  black  ribbon. 
Who'll  be  the  "  grandmother,"  I  wonder.  Minnie 
Lowe,  the  little  girl  with  the  flossy  curls.  Oh,  what  a 
cunning  grandmother! — Down,  Rover,  down!  What! 
barking  at  your  grandmother,  you  saucy  little  puppy  ? 

"Ha,  ha!  He,  he  !  Ha,  ha!  He,  he  !  Ho,  ho!" 
And  who  wouldn't  laugh  at  seeing  Jimmy  Plummer  in. 
a  high  dicky,  black  whiskers,  and  tall  hat?  The  hat 
touches  his  shoulders  behind.  Ah!  that  is  better. 
Cousin  Floy  has  taken  off  the  hat,  and  put  on  a  great 
deal  of  black  hair  pulled  from  an  old  cushion ;  yes,  a 
great  deal,  —  as  much  as  a  quarter  of  a  peck.  It  rises 
high  on  his  head,  and  —  What  ails  Rover  ?  Ha,  ha ! 
Pretty  good  !  Rover  doesn't  know  Jimmy ! 

Well,  well,  well !  Grandfather  forever !  They  are 
going  to  have  Johnny  a  grandfather !  Cousin  Floy  is 
covering  his  head  with  cotton-wool  for  white  hair. 
Now  she  gives  him  a  cane.  Now  go  on  the  spectacles. 
Now  she  is  —  doing  —  something  —  I  cannot  — *•  see  — 
what.  Oh,  yes,  yes,  yes !  putting  a  hump  under  his 
frock,  between  his  shoulders,  to  give  him  a  stoop.  Bark 
away,  Rover !  Who  wouldn't  bark  at  a  cotton-wool 
grandfather  ? 

Annetta  has  been  in  to  the  house,  and  is  bringing  out 
all  her  rag-babies.  To  be  sure  ;  for  now  there  can  be  a 
baby  in  every  family.  One  of  these  is  very  large,  and 
has  a  face  as  big  round  as  a  pint  porringer ;  but  the 


22 


THE  JIMMYJOHNS. 


others  are  quite  small.  The  large  one  is  named  Joey 
Moonbeam.  This  is  a  true  picture  of  Joey  Moon 
beam,  copied  from  her  like 
ness  now  hanging  in  Annet- 
ta  Plummer's  baby-house. 
The  largest  of  the  small 
rag-babies  is  named  Doro 
thy  Beeswax.  She  is  a 
little  taller  than  a  knitting- 
needle.  This  is  a  true  pic 
ture  of  Dorothy  Beeswax. 
The  next  largest  is  Betsey 
Ginger.  The  next  is  Jenny 
Popover.  The  next  is  Eudora  N.  Posy. 
The  "N."  stands  for  Nightingale. 
The  next  is  Susan  Sugarspoon.  This 
is  a  true  picture  of  Betsey  Ginger. 
Susan  Sugarspoon,  and  Jenny  Popover, 
and  Eudora  N.  Posy,  have  not  had  their 
pictures  taken  yet.  The  smallest  of 
all  is  Polly  Cologne,  — 
the  smallest,  the  pret 
tiest,  and  the  cunning- 
est.  Her  cheeks  are  painted  pink,  and 
she  wears  a  locket. 
Her  hair  is  of  flax- 
colored  floss-silk,  while 
the  hair  of  all  the  others 
is  stocking-ravellings. 
She  is  the  baby  of  the 
baby-house,  and  this  is  her  true  and  exact  picture. 
Polly  Cologne  has  feet ;  but  the  others  stand  on  their 
stiff  petticoats. 


THE  SAD  FATE  OF   "POLLY  COLOGNE."       23 

Now  comes  Mrs.  Plummer,  with  seed-cakes  for  the 
housekeepers  to  play  supper  with  ;  and  behind  her  comes 
cousin  Floy,  bringing  cinnamon-water,  and  dishes  from 
the  baby-house.  The  cinnamon-water  is  in  four  phials. 
Each  phial  has  in  it  sugar,  and  also  rose-leaves. 

What  are  the  children  laughing  and  whispering  about  ? 
and  why  do  they  look  at  little  Fanny  Brimmer  in  such 
a  way?  Mrs.  Plummer  has  called  Annetta  aside  with 
one  or  two  others,  and  is  asking  why  they  do  so. 

"Because,"  whispers  little  Lulu,  u  Fanny  picked  out 
—  the  biggest  —  seed-cakes  —  that  had  the  most  — 
sugar-plums  —  on  the  tops." 

Mrs.  Plummer  tells  them,  speaking  very  low,  that 
perhaps  Fann}T  did  not  know  it  was  selfish  to  do  so ; 
that  her  mother  might  never  have  told  her.  ' '  Selfish 
girls,"  sa3's  Mrs.  Plummer,  "  should  be  pitied,  not 
laughed  at ;  and  besides,  perhaps  every  one  of  you  may 
be  selfish  in  some  other  way." 

Half-past  four  o'clock.  What  is  going  on  now  ?  Oh  ! 
I  see.  The  "  family  "  at  the  rock  are  having  a  party, 
and  to  this  part}T  have  come  the  "  families  "  from  the 
hollows  and  the  ha}Tcock.  —  No,  Rover,  you  were  not 
invited.  Down,  sir  !  — down  ! 

The  supper  is  laid  out  on  the  rock.  The  cinnamon- 
water  is  poured  into  the  cups,  each  cup  holding  half  a 
thimbleful.  Grandfather  Johnny  and  grandmother 
Minnie  sit  at  the  head,  and  father  Jimmy  at  the  foot ; 
while  the  mothers  with  their  little  girls  fill  the  room  be 
tween.  The  mothers  wear  head-dresses.  The  little 
girls  wear  dandelion-curls,  and  curls  of  shavings.  Only 
one  of  the  babies  is  allowed  to  come  to  the  table,  and 
that  is  Polly  Cologne.  The  others  sit  on  the  floor,  and 


24  THE  JIMMYJOHNS. 

play  with  their  playthings.  Joey  Moonbeam  can  come 
to  table,  because  she  is  big  enough.  They  call  Joey 
Moonbeam  a  little  girl  three  years  old,  that  cannot  walk, 
because  she  has  had  a  fever.  Polly  Cologne  seems  to 
be  a  pet  among  all  these  mothers  and  little  girls.  They 
all  want  to  hold  her.  Why,  by  their  talk,  one  might 
suppose  she  was  a  live  baby.  Hear  them.  "  O  little 
darling  !  "  "  Just  as  cunning !  "  "  Dear  'ittle  baby !  " 
"  Did  zee  want  some  payzings?  "  "  Turn  to  oor  moz- 
zer,  oo  darling !  "  "  Do  let  me  hold  her !  "  "  No,  let 
me,  let  me!"  "Me!"  And  so  she  is  passed  from  one 
to  another,  and  kissed  and  stroked  and  patted,  and 
talked  to.  Really  the  birthday-party  is  having  a  good 
time.  Ah !  who  would  not  be  a  little  girl  plajing  sup 
per  on  a  rock,  out  among  the  apple-trees,  and  sipping 
cinnamon-water  ? 

But,  dear,  dear !  what  is  the  matter?  Why  do  they 
all  jump  down  in  a  hurry,  and  scream  and  shout,*and 
run  after  Rover  ?  What !  Polly  Cologne  ?  Rover  gone 
off  with  Polly  Cologne  in  his  mouth?  Yes,  Rover  has. 
There  he  goes,  scampering  away,  and  all  the  children 
after  him,  calling,  "Here,  here,  ere,  ere,  ere!  Back, 
sir !  back !  "  The  Jimmyjohns  slip  with  their  smooth- 
bottomed  boots,  and  down  they  go  ;  and  off  go  wigs, 
whiskers,  and  all !  Now  they're  up  again,  shouting  to 
Rover,  "  Here,  Rover !  — here,  Rover !  Drop  it,  drop 
it !  Rove,  Rove !  Come  back !  " 

But  Rove  won't  hear,  and  won't  come  back.  He's 
out  of  the  orchard,  across  the  meadow,  over  the  brook  ; 
and  now  —  and  now  he  has  gone  into  the  woods  !  Oh, 
dear,  dear ! 

Four  days  later.    Orchard,  wood,  brook,  and  meadow 


THE  SAD  FATE  OF   "  POLLY'  COLOGNE."       25 

have  been  searched ;  but  the  lost  is  not  yet  found. 
Annetta  is  quite  sad.  She  has  put  away  Polly 
Cologne's  every-day  locket  and  ever}T-day  clothes,  and 
blue  silk  sun-bonnet,  because  it  made  her  feel  badly  to 
see  them. 

Dear  little  Polly  Cologne,  where  are  you  now?  Lost 
in  the  woods  ?  And  are  the  Robin  Redbreasts  cover 
ing  you  over  with  leaves?  Perhaps  naughty  Rover 
buried  you  up  like  a  meat-bone  in  the  cold,  damp 
ground,  or  dropped  you  in  the  brook,  —  and,  alas ! 
you  could  never  swim  ashore.  Did  those  bright-spot 
ted  trout  eat  you  ?  or  did  you  float  away  to  the  sea  ? 
Perhaps  you  did  float  away  to  the  sea.  Perhaps  you 
are  now  far  out  on  the  mighty  ocean,  where  the 
wild  winds  blow,  and  there,  all  alone,  toss  up  and 
down,  up  and  down,  on  the  rolling  waves ;  or  per 
haps  the  waves  and  the  winds  are  at  rest,  and  the 
sea  is  smooth  like  a  sea  of  glass,  and  you  he  quietly 
there,  with  your  pink  cheeks  turned  up  to  the  sky. 
Or  the  mermaids  may  take  you  down  into  their  sea- 
caverns  all  lined  with  rose-colored  shells,  and  sing  you 
sweet  songs  till  jour  hair  turns  green.  Or  who  knows 
but  you  may  float  away  to  Northland,  and  be  picked  up 
on  shore  by  the  little  funny,  furry  Esquimaux  children  ? 
Oh,  if  you  should  be  frozen  solid  in  an  iceberg  there  ! 
But  it  may  be  you  have  drifted  down  to  the  sunny 
islands  of  the  South,  where  the  people  have  few  clothes, 
no  houses,  no  schools ;  and  then  some  little,  half- 
naked,  dusky  child  may  pick  }TOU  up  from  among  the 
coral  and  sea-shells,  and  show  you  to  its  mother,  and 
say,  "  Mother,  where  do  this  kind  of  folks  live  ?  "  And 
its  mother,  not  having  studied  geography,  may  say,. 
"  Oh  !  in  a  wonderful  country  close  by  the  moon." 


26  THE  JIMMYJOHNS. 

Yes,  let  us  hope  that  Polly  Cologne  has  been  wafted 
to  those  sunny  summer-lands  of  the  South,  where 
oranges  grow,  and  prunes,  and  bananas ;  where  the 
palm-tree  waves,  and  geraniums  grow  wild ;  where  the 
air  is  balmy ;  where  snow  never  comes,  nor  ice,  nor 
frost ;  where  bright-winged  birds  warble  in  the  groves  ; 
where  trees  are  forever  green,  and  flowers  bloom 
through  all  the  year. 


CHAPTER  III. 

AN    ACCOUNT    OF    THE    JIMMYJOHNS*    LITTLE   AFFAIR  WITH 
THE   GULLS. 

IN  this  story  will  be  given  a  true  and  exact  account 
of  the  Jimmyjohns'  affair  with  the  gulls ;  also  of 
the  manner  in  which  Jimmy  was  turned  out  of  the  little 
red  house  at  the  sea-shore.  The  account  will  begin  at 
the  time  of  their  leaving  home.  It  will  explain  the 
reason  of  their  going,  and  will,  in  fact,  tell  every  thing 
that  happened  to  them  just  exactly  as  it  happened. 

Mr.  Plummer,  their  father,  had  bought  some  salt 
hay  at  a  place  called  Stony  Point,  near  the  sea-shore. 
One  clay  he  sent  Ellis  Payne  with  the  ox-cart  to  finish 
making  the  h&y  and  bring  it  home.  Mr.  Plummer  told 
Ellis  Payne  that  he  himself  should  be  riding  that  way 
about  noontime,  and  would  carry  him  a  warm  dinner. 
He  started  just  after  eating  his  own  dinner.  Ellis 
Payne's  was  put  up  in  a  six-quart  tin  pail.  It  being 
Saturday,  Mr.  Plummer  took  the  Jimm3'johns  along. 


THE  LITTLE   AFFAIR   WITH  THE  GULLS.       27 

Their  mother  said  they  might  play  at  Stony  Point  till 
Ellis  PajTie  came  home,  and  then  ride  back  on  the  hay. 
Mr.  Plmmner  was  going  to  the  mill. 

Now,  the  road  turned  off  to  the  mill  a  short  distance 
before  reaching  Stony  Point;  and  Mr.  Plummer,  to 
save  time,  told  the  Jiinmyjohns  they  might  jump  out 
there,  and  carry  the  pail  to  Ellis  Payne,  and  he  would 
keep  on  to  the  mill,  and  then  he  could  take  in  the 
funny  man.  The  funny  man  was  just  turning  up  that 
same  road.  He  stopped  to  have  a  little  fun  with  the 
twins ;  jumped  them  out  of  the  wagon ;  tried  to  guess 
which  was  which,  and,  when  told,  turned  them  round 
and  round,  to  mix  them  up;  then  tried  to  guess  again, 
and  would  have  tossed  up  a  cent,  and  said,  "  Heads, 
this  is  Jimnrv, — tails,  this  is  Johnny,"  as  he  some- 
tunes  did,  only  that  the  horse  seemed  in  somewhat  of  a 
hurry. 

Mr.  Plummer  showed  the  little  boys  a  scraggy  tree 
which  grew  on  the  edge  of  a  bank,  near  the  shore ; 
and  told  them  they  would  see  the  oxen  as  soon  as  they 
turned  the  corner  where  that  tree  grew.  One  took 
hold  on  one  side  of  the  pail,  and  the  other  on  the 
other ;  and  in  that  way  they  walked  along  the  shore, 
keeping  pretty  close  to  the  bank.  It  took  them  only 
about  five  or  ten  minutes  to  reach  that  tree  ;  and,  when 
the  corner  was  turned,  they  saw  the  oxen  plainly,  but 
could  not  see  Ellis  Payne.  They  kept  on,  walking 
more  slowly,  the  way  being  more  stony,  and  at  last 
came  to  the  oxen.  Ellis  Payne  was  not  there.  The 
reason  of  his  not  having  been  there  is  as  follows  :  Two 
fields  away  from  the  shore  stood  a  small  red  house  all 
alone  by  itself,  in  which  lived  an  old  woman  with  her 


28  THE  JIMMYJOHNS. 

young  grandson.  The  young  grandson  fell  from  a 
chamber- window,  and  broke  his  collar-bone  bone  ;  and 
the  old  woman  ran  to  the  shore,  screaming  for  help ; 
and  Ellis  Payne  left  Ms  work,  and  went  to  find  out 
what  was  the  matter. 

The  Jimnryjohns,  seeing  some  oxen  farther  along  the 
shore,  thought  perhaps  those  first  oxen  were  not  the 
right  ones,  and  so  kept  on  to  those  other  ones.  They 
turned  down,  and  walked  quite  near  the  water,  picking 
up  pretty  pebbles  as  they  went  along,  and  now  and 
then  a  cockle-shell,  or  a  scallop,  or  purple  muscle. 
Some  of  the  shells  were  single  ;  others  in  pairs,  which 
could  be  opened  like  crackers.  They  had  a  reason 
for  picking  up  the  scallops  and  muscles,  which  there 
is  no  time  to  mention  here ;  though,  after  all,  per 
haps  it  may  as  well  be  told.  Annetta  Pluminer  was 
going  to  have  a  party,  and  she  had  not  enough  scal 
loped  shells  to  bake  her  cakes  in.  The  cockles  were 
for  Effie  to  put  in  her  arm-basket.  The  Jimmyjohns 
picked  up  enough  of  all  kinds  to  fill  their  pockets  ;  then 
took  off  their  hats,  and  filled  those.  By  that  time  they 
had  come  to  the  spot  where  the  oxen  had  stood.  But 
no  oxen  were  there  then,  and  no  man:  so  there  was 
nothing  better  to  do  than  to  play  in  the  sand,  and  sail 
clam-shell  boats  in  the  little  pools.  It  was  a  warm 
day  ;  the  water  looked  cool ;  and  the  little  Jimmies,  as 
they  beheld  the  rippling  waves,  felt  just  like  wading  in. 
So  it  was  off  with  shoes,  and  off  with  stockings,  roll  up 
trousers-legs,  and  away  and  away,  with  a  run,  and  a 
shout,  and  a  dash,  and  a  splash,  and  a  spatter.  A  little 
distance  out  from  the  shore  there  was  a  high  rock,  not 
so  very,  very  high,  — just  the  right  height  to  give  them 


THE  LITTLE   AFFAIR   WITH  THE  GULLS.      29 

a  good  seat ;  and  they  sat  down  there,  feet  in  the 
water,  heads  together,  looking  down  into  the  water, 
watching  the  fries  darting  swiftly  hither  and  thither. 

It  is  just  here  that  the  gull  part  of  the  story  comes 
in.  Gulls  are  large  sea-birds.  They  live  upon  fish, 
and  they  are  their  own  fishermen.  Some  may  call  this 
the  funny  part  of  the  story,  though  those  who  are  ever 
in  such  a  story  may  not  call  it  the  funny  part. 

The  white-winged  gulls  were  flying  about.  It  is  a 
common  thing,  at  sea-side  places,  to  see  gulls  flying 
about,  and  skimming  over  the  water.  Sometimes  they 
dip  in  their  bills  and  take  a  fish.  The  Jimmyjohns  sat 
looking  down,  keeping  very  still,  so  as  not  to  scare  the 
fries  away.  Just  what  the  gulls  thought  of  them  no 
one  knows,  and  it  can  never  be  known  ;  for  there  is  no 
way  of  finding  out  gulls'  thoughts,  which  is  a  pity :  it 
would  be  so  curious  to  know  just  what  they  do  think 
about,  and  how  they  think  it !  Perhaps  those  that 
belong  to  this  story  thought  the  two  Jimmyjohns  were 
two  great  fishes,  exactly  alike  ;  or  perhaps  they  thought 
hair  would  be  good  to  line  nests  with.  But,  whatever 
they  thought,  this  is  what  they  did :  They  flew  clown 
swift  and  sudden  upon  the  boys'  heads,  flapped  their 
great  wings  in  their  faces,  clawed  their  hair,  beat  them 
with  their  beaks.  The  little  fellows  screamed,  jumped, 
fell  down,  scrambled  up,  ran,  fell  down,  then  up  again ; 
got  to  the  shore  some  way  ;  ran  over  the  sand,  over  the 
pebbles,  over  the  stones,  over  the  rocks,  across  wet 
grass,  up  a  bank,  through  a  field,  screaming  all  the 
time  as  if  the  gulls  were  chasing  them  every  step  of 
the  way.  But  no  doubt  the  gulls  had  been  just  as 
much  frightened  as  the  boys  ;  for  they  had  flown  away 


30  THE  JIMMYJOHNS. 

faster  than  they  came,  out  of  sight,  far  over  the  sea. 
The  Jimmies  sat  down  on  the  grass,  in  the  warm  sun 
shine,  and  rubbed  their  bruises,  and  counted  the  cuts 
in  their  feet.  Johnny's  left  knee  was  lame,  and  the 
heel  of  the  other  foot  had  been  badly  cut  b}7  a  piece  of 
clam-shell. 

By  this  time  it  was  quite  late  in  the  afternoon.  The 
bo}Ts  began  to  feel  hungry,  and  talked  of  going  to  get 
the  pail,  and  eating  some  of  the  dinner.  One  guessed 
it  would  be  stealing  to  do  that,  and  the  other  guessed 
it  would  not  be  stealing.  At  last  they  agreed  to  go 
and  get  their  hats  and  shoes  and  stockings  and  the 
pail,  and  find  Ellis  Payne,  and  ask  him  to  give  them 
a  little  piece  of  his  gingerbread. 

It  was  pretty  hard  work  going  back  over  those  sharp 
stones,  and  that  coarse,  stubbed  grass,  barefoot.  To 
be  sure,  they  came  that  way  ;  but  they  were  frightened 
then,  and  only  thought  of  the  gulls.  That  grass — why, 
its  edges  were  so  sharp,  it  seemed  as  if  little  knives 
were  cutting  into  their  feet !  They  walked  on  their 
heels,  on  their  toes,  on  the  sides  of  their  feet,  almost 
on  the  tops  of  them  sometimes,  and  so  hobbled  along 
slowly,  —  rather  too  slowly ;  for,  by  the  time  they 
reached  the  shore,  somebocty  had  been  there  before 
them,  and  taken  all  their  things.  What  body?  Why, 
a  body  you  have  heard  of  before ;  a  body  that  -has 
done  great  mischief;  a  body  that  had  carried  off 
bigger  tilings  than  six-quart  tin  pails ;  a  body  that  is 
said  to  get  furious  at  times,  and  to  do  then  the  most 
terrible  things.  Have  3^ou  never  heard  of  a  body  of 
water  called  the  mighty  ocean?  That  was  it.  The 
mighty  ocean  rushed  up  that  pebbly  shore,  and  swal- 


THE  LITTLE   AFFAIR   WITH  THE  GULLS.      31 

lowed  up  hats,  shoes,  stockings,  dinner-pail,  dinner, 
and  all.  To  speak  in  plain  words,  the  tide  had  risen, 
and  covered  them. 

The  Jimmies  never  thought  of  that  until  a  man 
came  along  —  a  man  with  a  horse-cart  —  and  told  them. 
"  Why,"  said  he,  "no  use  looking:  the  tide  has 
carried  them  off." 

When  the  man  had  gone,  the  boys  went  up  from  the 
water  to  look  for  Ellis  Payne.  Johnny's  heel  was  in 
such  a  state,  he  could  only  use  the  toes  of  that  foot ; 
and,  in  going  over  the  sharp  stones,  he  cut  the  ball 
of  the  same  foot, -so  that  he  could  not  step  with  it  at 
all ;  and,  when  they  came  to  the  stubbed  grass  that  cut 
like  little  knives,  he  held  up  one  foot,  and  hopped  on 
the  other ;  and,  getting  tired  of  that,  he  walked  on  his 
knees.  Jimmy  laughed  at  him,  but,  in  the  midst  of 
his  laughing,  cried  out,  "  Ou,  ou ! "  and  was  glad 
enough  to  come  down  upon  his  own  knees.  And  so 
they  went  on  a  while  ;  but  finding  knee-walking  hard  to 
do,  and  apt  to  make  knee-walkers  roll  over,  (hey  tried 
hand-walking  and  knee- walking  both,  which  is  all  the 
same  as  crawling. 

And  now  comes  that  part  of  the  story  where  Jimmy 
was  turned  out  of  a  house. 

While  those  boys  had  been  picking  up  shells,  and 
playing  in  the  sand,  and  wading,  and  watching  the 
fries,  and  running  away  from  gulls,  and  drying  their 
clothes  in  the  sun,  and  counting  their  cuts,  and  hob 
bling  up  and  down  the  shore,  the  sun  had  been  sinking 
lower  and  lower  and  lower;  and  Ellis  Payne  had 
finished  making  the  hay,  and  gone  home  with  it.  It 
is  sad  to  think  how  hungry  Ellis  Payne  must  have 


32  THE  JIMMYJOHNS. 

been !  The  boys  were  hungry  too  ;  and  that  may  have 
been  the  reason  why  they  went  toward  the  little  red 
house.  It  stood  two  fields  away  from  the  shore,  as 
has  already  been  stated.  When  they  reached  the  last 
field,  Johnny  lay  down  in  the  grass,  close  by  a  row  of 
wild-plum  bushes,  and  cried.  He  said  he  could  not 
walk  any  more.  Jimmy  said  he  would  go  into  that 
house  ;  and,  if  any  woman  gave  him  any  thing,  he  would 
bring  Johnnj^  some.  But  when  he  reached  the  house 
he  was-.too  bashful  to  open  the  door,  and  staid  in 
the  wood-shed  quite  a  long  time,  till  he  saw  a  woman 
go  in. 

After  Jimmy  had  been  gone  a  few  moments,  Johnny 
heard  a  noise  of  some  one  walking  near ;  and  soon  an 
old  woman  came  out  from  behind  the  bushes,  with 
some  leaves  in  her  hand.  She  went  close  to  Johnnj-, 
and  asked  him  what  he  was  lying  there  for,  bareheaded. 
Johnny  told  her  he  had  a  lame  knee  and  a  sore  heel, 
and  he  couldn't  walk. 

"Don't  tell  me  that!"  said  she.  "Didn't  I  just 
see  you  running  across  the  field  ?  ' ' 

"  No  —  ma'am  —  'twasn't  —  I,"  sobbed  Johnny. 

"Don't  tell  me!  don't  tell  me!"  cried  the  old 
woman ;  and  she  walked  off,  picking  now  and  then  a 
leaf  as  she  went.  The  leaves  were  plantain-leaves 
for  the  bruises  of  her  little  grandson,  who  had  fallen 
out  of  the  chamber-window.  The  boy  she  saw  running 
across  the  field  was  Jimmy. 

When  that  old  woman  had  finished  picking  leaves, 
she  went  back  into  the  house ;  and  hardly  had  she 
spread  the  leaves  out  on  the  table,  when  Jimmy  put 
his  head  in  at  the  door  slowly,  then  his  shoulders, 
then  the  rest  of  himself. 


THE  JIMMYJOJtLNS  AND  THE  GULLS. 


THE  JIMMYJOHNS'  SAILOK-SUITS.  35 

"What  do  you  want  here?  "  cried  the  old  woman. 
"  Didn't  you  tell  me  you  couldn't  walk?  " 

"  No  —  ma'am,"  Jimmy  answered,  frightened  almost 
out  of  his  breath. 

"Oh!  oh!  oh!  what  a  big  story-teller  you  are!" 
cried  the  woman.  ' '  Off  with  you  !  —  quick  too  !  I 
don't  want  such  a  boy  as  you  are  in  my  house  with 
my  little  Sammy." 

By  the  time  she  had  got  as  far  as  "  my  little  Sam 
my,"  Jimmy  was  out  of  the  house  and  at  the  first  pair 
of  bars  ;  and,  being  in  a  terrible  fright,  he  ran  back  to 
Johnny  as  fast  as  he  could  go. 

Johnny  was  sitting  there,  hugging  somebody.  What 
body  ?  Not  a  body  of  water  is  meant  this  time,  but 
a  lively,  loving,  frisking,  barking  little  body,  named 
Rover.  And  close  behind  came  Mr.  Plummer.  When 
Ellis  Payne  came  home  without  the  Jimmyjohns,  Mr. 
Plummer  put  the  horse  into  the  light  wagon,  and  took 
Rover,  and  went  to  look  after  them. 


CHARTER  IV. 

THE   JIMMY JOHNS'    SAILOR-SUITS. 

chapter  will  tell  why  Mrs.  Plummer  had  to 
-L  sew  very  odd-looking  patches  on  the  Jimmyjohns' 
sailor-suits.  It  will  also  tell  what  boy  cut  holes  in 
those  sailor-suits,  and  why  he  cut  them,  and  when ; 
and  will  show,  that,  at  the  time  it  was  done,  the  three 
boys  were  in  great  danger. 


36  THE  JIMMYJOHNS. 

It  was  on  a  Monday  morning  that  people  first  took 
notice  that  the  Jimmies'  trousers  were  patched  in  a 
curious  manner.  Johnny  was  carrying  the  new  dog, 
and  Jimmy  was  taking  hold  of  Johnny's  hand.  After 
Rover  was  lost,  the  twins  had  a  new  dog  given  them, 
named  Snip.  He  was  the  smallest  dog  they  ever  saw : 
but  he  was  a  dog ;  he  was  not  a  puppy.  Mr.  Plum- 
mer  brought  him  home  in  his  pocket  one  day,  two 
weeks  after  Rover  went  away.  /  It  was  Rover,  you 
know,  that  ran  off  with  poor  little  Polly  Cologne. 
People  tallied  so  much  to  him  about  this  piece  of  mis 
chief,  that  at  last  he  began  to  feel  ashamed  of  himself ; 
and,  as  soon  as  Polly  Cologne's  name  was  mentioned,  he 
would  slink  into  a  corner,  and  hide  his  head.  One  day 
Annetta  showed  him  an  apron  that  poor  little  Polly 
used  to  wear,  — it  was  a  bib-apron,  —  and  said  to  him, 
."  St'boy  !  Go  find  her !  Don't  come  back  till  you  find 
her!" 

The  bib-apron  was  about  three  inches  long.  Rover 
caught  it  in  his  mouth,  and  away  he  went,  and  —  did 
not  come  back.  They  looked  for  him  far  and  near ; 
they  put  his  name  in  the  newspapers  ;  but  all  in  vain. 
The  apron  was  found  sticking  to  a  bramble-bush,  about 
a  mile  from  home  ;  but  nothing  could  be  seen  or  heard 
of  Rover.  There  was  a  circus  in  town  that  day,  and 
he  might  have  gone  off  with  that.  Perhaps  he  was 
ashamed  to  come  back.  Little  Mr.  Tompkins,  the 
lobster-seller,  thinks  the  dog  understood  what  Annetta 
said,  and  that  he  may  be,  even  now,  scouring  the 
woods,  or  else  sniffing  along  the  streets,  peeping  into 
back-yards,  down  cellar-ways,  up  staircases,  in  search 
of  poor  Polly  Cologne. 


SAILOR-SUITS.  37 

Mr.  Tompkins  was  among  the  very  first  to  notice  the 
sailor-suits.  He  met  the  twins  that  morning  as  he 
was  wheeling  along  his  lobsters,  and  quickly  dropped 
his  wheelbarrow,  and  sat  down  on  one  of  the  side 
boards.  Being  a  small,  slim  man,  he  could  sit  there 
as  well  as  not  without  tipping  the  wheelbarrow  over. 

Mr.  Tompkins  wore  short-legged  pantaloons  and  a 
long-waisted  coat.  The  reason  of  this  was,  that  he  had 
short  legs  and  (for  his  size)  a  long  waist.  His  coat 
was  buttoned  up  to  his  chin.  His  cap  had  a  stiff  visor, 
w^hich  stood  out  like  the  awning  of  a  shop.  He  had  a 
thin  face,  a  small  nose,  small  c}^cs,  and  a  wide  mouth ; 
and  he  wore  a  blue  apron  with  shoulder-straps. 

"What's  happened  to  your  trousers,  eh?"  asked 
little  Mr.  Tompkins.  His  way  of  speaking  was  as 
sharp  and  quick  as  Snip's  way  of  barking.  "  Sa}^ 
what's  happened  to  your  trousers?" 

The  trousers  were  patched  in  this  way :  Jimmy's 
had  a  long  strip  on  the  left  leg :  Johnny's  had  a  round 
patch  above  each  knee,  one  being  much  farther  up  than 
the  other. 

"Oh,  yes !  I  see,  —  I  see  how  it  is,"  said  Mr. 
Tompkins.  "  Your  mother  did  that  so  as  to  tell  you 
apart.  Oh,  yes !  Yes,  yes !  Very  good !  Johnny 
Shortpatch,  Jimmy  Longpatch  ;  or  Jimmy  Shortpatch, 
Johnny  Longpatch,  — which  is  it?  " 

"  She  didn't  do  so  for  that,"  said  Johmyv,  and  then 
Jimmy  after  him.  Johnny  was  commonly  the  first  to 
speak. 

"She  didn't?"  cried  Mr.  Tompkins:  "then  what 
did  she  do  so  for  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  to  tell  which  is  good,  and  which  is  naught}'," 
said  a  lady  who  had  stopped  to  look  on. 


38  THE   JIMMYJOHNS. 

Then  the  butcher's  boy  stepped  up,  and  lie  wanted 
to 'know  about  the  trousers.  Then  a  woman  looked 
out  of  the  window,  and  she  wanted  to  know  about  the 
trousers.  Then  a  great  black  dog  came  up,  and  he 
smelt  of  the  trousers,  which  made  Snip  snap  his 
teeth.  Then  came  a  flock  of  school-children,  and  they 
had  something  to  say.  "Halloo  !  "  "  What's  up?  " 
"  What's  the  matter  with  all  your  trousers? "  "  Hoo, 
hoo  !  "  "  How  d'ye  do,  Mr.  Patcherboys  ?  " 

Now,  the  truth  was,  that  Amos  Dyke  cut  holes  in 
those  trousers  with  his  jack-knife.  It  happened  in  this 
way :  The  Jimmies,  the  Saturday  before  that  Monda}^ 
started  from  home  to  spend  a  cent  at  Mr.  Juniper's 
store.  They  had,  in  the  first  place,  two  cents  ;  but  one 
was  lost.  The}^  got  those  two  cents  by  having  a  show 
in  the  barn.  The  price  for  going  in  to  see  the  show 
was  four  pins.  The  Jimmies  sold  the  pins  to  the  funny 
man.  He  gave  a  cent  for  sixteen  straight  ones,  but 
would  take  no  crooked  ones  at  any  price.  Sometimes 
the  Jimmies  tried  to  pound  the  crooked  ones  straight 
on  a  stone.  Their  pins,  that  Saturday,  came  to  nearly 
a  cent  and  three-quarters  ;  and  the  funny  man  made  it 
up  to  two.  Jimmy  let  his  fall  on  the  barn-floor ;  and 
Johnny,  in  helping  him  find  it,  hit  it  accidentally  with 
his  toe,  and  knocked  it  through  a  crack.  Then  Mrs. 
Plummer  said  they  would  have  to  divide  between  them 
what  was  bought  with  the  other  cent. 

The  little  boys  left  home  to  go  to  Mr.  Juniper's  store 
at  half-past  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  taking  Snip 
with  them.  Probably,  if  they  had  not  taken  him  with 
them,  all  would  have  been  well. 

In  passing  a  garden,  they  looked  through  the  pickets, 


THE  JIMMY  JOHNS'  SAILOR-SUITS.  39 

and  saw  a  kitten  racing  along  the  paths.  Snip  was 
after  her  in  a  moment. 

"  Now,  you  stay  and  take  care  of  Snip,"  said  Johnny 
to  Jimmy,  "  and  I'll  go  spend  the  cent,  and  bring  3'our 
half  here."  And  just  so  they  did.  Jimmy  found  Snip, 
and  then  went  along  to  a  shady  place  under  a  tree  ;  and 
there  he  climbed  to  the  top  rail-of  a  fence,  and  sat  down 
to  wait. 

Johnny  went  round  to  Mr.  Juniper's  store,  and  asked 
for  a  cent  roll  of  checkerberry  lozenges.  Mr.  Juniper 
had  no  cent  rolls  of  lozenges  ;  but  he  had  striped  candy, 
and  some  quite  large  peaches,  wrhich  he  was  willing, 
for  reasons  known  to  himself,  to  sell  for  a  cent  apiece. 
Johnny  felt  so  thirsty,  that  he  longed  to  bite  of  a 
peach  :  so  he  bought  one,  and  turned  back  towards  the 
garden.  Having  no  knife  to  cut  it  with,  he  ate  off  his 
half  going  along  ;  and  this  tasted  so  good,  that  he  could 
hardly  help  eating  Jimmy's  half.  But  he  only  nibbled 
the  edges  to  make  them  even. 

Turning  a  corner,  he  spied  Jimmy,  and  jumped  over 
into  a  field,  so  as  to  run  across  by  a  short  cut.  In  the 
field  he  met  Amos  Dyke.  Amos  D}Tke  is  a  large  boy, 
and  a  cruel  boy.  He  likes  to  hurt  small  children  who 
cannot  hurt  him. 

Amos  Dyke  knocked  Johnny's  elbow  with  a  basket 
he  was  carrying,  and  made  him  drop  the  half-peach  in 
the  grass.  '  Then  Johnny  began  to  cry. 

"  Now,  if  you  don't  stop  crying,  I'll  eat  it,"  said 
Amos,  taking  up  the  half-peach,  and  setting  his  teeth 
in  it. 

"Oh!  don't  you!  don't!  give  it  to  me !  it's  Jim 
my's  half!  "  cried  Johnny.  Amos  took  two  bites, 


40  THE  JIMMYJOHNS. 

and  then  threw  away  the  stone.  The  stone  was  all 
there  was  left  after  the  two  bites  were  taken.  Johnny 
cried  louder  than  before. 

' '  Here  !  stop  that !  stop  that ! ' '  some  one  called 
out  from  the  road.  It  was  Mr.  Tompkins  the  lobster- 
seller.  "Stop!"  cried  Mr.  Tompkins.  "Let  that 
little  chap  alone!  Why  don't  you  take  one  of  your 
own  size  ?  ' ' 

The  fact  is,  that  Amos  Dyke  never  does  take  one  of 
his  own  size.  He  always  takes  some  little  fellow  who 
can't  defend  himself. 

Just  about  this  time  the  funny  man  came  along  with 
his  umbrellas  under  his  arm.  The  funny  man  is  an 
umbrella-mender.  Then  Amos  Dyke,  seeing  that  two 
men  were  looking  at  him,  whispered  to  Johnny,  "  Hush 
up  !  Quick  !  Don't  tell !  Come  down  to  the  shore, 
and  I'll  let  you  go  graping  with  me  in  a  boat.  I'll 
run  ahead  and  get  the  oars,  and  you  go  get  Jimmy." 

The  boat  was  a  row-boat.  Johnny  sat  at  one  end, 
and  Jimmy  at  the  other.  Amos  Dyke  sat  in  the  middle, 
and  rowed.  Before  starting,  he  fastened  a  tall  stick  at 
the  stern  of  the  boat,  and  tied  his  handkerchief  to  it, 
and  called  that  the  flag. 

They  rowed  along-shore,  then  off  beyond  the  rocks, 
then  in-shore  again,  and  farther  along,  for  nearly  a  mile, 
to  a  place  called  "  High  Pines,"  and  there  landed. 
The  grapes  grew  in  the  woods,  on  the  top  of  a  steep, 
sandy  cliff  as  high  as  a  high  house.  Twice,  in  climbing 
this  cliff,  did  the  little  Jimmies  slide  down,  down,  down  ; 
twice  was  poor  Snip  buried  alive  ;  and  many  times  were 
all  three  pelted  by  the  rolling,  rattling  stones. 

They  reached   the    top   at  last,   and   found  Amos 


SAILOR-SUITS.  41 

already  picking  grapes.  He  told  them,  that,  if  they 
would  pick  for  him,  he  would  give  them  two  great 
bunches.  The  grapes  were  of  a  kind  called  sugar- 
grapes,  light- colored,  fragrant,  and  as  sweet  as  honey. 
Amos  told  the  little  boys  not  to  eat  while  they  were 
picking.  When  he  had  filled  his  basket,  he  borrowed 
the  Jimmies'  pocket-handkerchiefs,  and  tied  some  up  in 
those.  They  were  their  "  lion"  pocket-handkerchiefs  : 
each  had  in  its  centre  a  lion,  with  a  b  c's  all  around 
the  lion.  Amos  gave  the  Jimmies  two  great  bunches 
apiece.  He  then  hid  the  basket  and  two  small  bundles 
behind  a  bush,  and  they  all  three  went  to  find  a  thick 
spot.  When  they  found  the  thick  spot,  Amos,  not 
having  any  thing  else  to  pick  in,  took  off  his  jacket,  and 
filled  both  sleeves.  Then  he  borrowed  the  Jimmy- 
Johns'  jackets,  and  filled  the  four  sleeves.  Then  he 
filled  his  own  hat  and  the  Jimmyjohns'  hats. 

As  it  grew  later,  the  wind  breezed  up,  and  the  Jim 
mies  began  to  feel  cold.  Amos  had  long  pantaloons 
and  a  vest ;  but  the  Jimmies'  little  fat  legs  were  bare, 
and  they  had  no  vests  :  they  only  had  thin  waists,  and 
their  trousers  were  rolled  up. 

It  began  to  sprinkle,  and  Amos  said  it  was  time  to 
go.  They  went  back  for  the  basket  and  two  small 
bundles,  but  were  a  long  time  in  finding  the  bush,  on 
account  of  the  bushes  there  looking  so  much  alike. 
They  did  find  it,  though  ;  or  rather  Snip  found  it.  The 
Jimmies  took  one  apiece  of  the  bundles,  and  wanted  to 
take  more  ;  but  Amos  was  afraid  they  might  lose  some 
of  the  grapes.  Perhaps  he  knew  pretty  well  how  they 
would  reach  the  foot  of  the  cliff;  perhaps  he  knew 
pretty  well  that  they  would  begin  slowly,  and  that 


42  THE  JIMMYJOHNS. 

the  sliding  sands  would  take  them  along  so  fast  they 
couldn't  stop  themselves,  and  would  land  them  at  the 
bottom  in  two  small  heaps. 

Now  about  the  row  home.  Such  a  time  as  they  had  ! 
There  was  no  rain  to  speak  of ;  but  the  wind  blew  hard, 
and  this  made  the  sea  very  rough,  —  so  rough  that  the 
boat  pitched  up  and  down,  and  sometimes  took  in  water. 
Amos  told  the  Jimmies  to  hold  on  by  the  sides.  They 
were  seated  at  the  ends,  as  before,  and,  by  stretching 
their  arms  apart,  could  take  hold  of  each  side,  and  did 
so.  Amos  put  on  his  own  hat,  and  let  them  have  theirs, 
but  said  it  wouldn't  do  to  stop  to  empty  the  jacket- 
sleeves.  The  grapes  from  the  hats  were  emptied  into 
the  bottom  of  the  boat.  Snip  was  in  the  bottom  of 
the  boat  too.  As  there  was  no  one  to  hold  him,  he 
lay  down  on  the  Jimnryjohns'  jackets. 

And  there  he  did  mischief.  The  boat,  it  seems, 
was  an  old,  leaky  boat,  and  the  leaks  were  not  well 
stopped.  Snip  pulled  out  with  his  teeth,  and  chewed 
up,  what  had  been  stuffed  into  the  cracks  ;  and,  before 
they  knew  what  he  was  about,  the  water  had  begun  to 
come  in,  and  was  wetting  their  feet  and  all  the  things 
in  the  bottom.  The  wind  took  their  hats  off,  and  blew 
the  flag  away.  They  caught  their  hats,  and  held  them 
between  their  knees.  Amos  began  to  look  sober. 
The  little  boys,  half  crying,  held  fast  by  the  sides  of 
the  boat,  saying  over  and  over,  "Oh,  I  want  to  go 
home  !  "  "I  want  to  see  mother  !  " 

This  was  the  time  when  the  trousers  were  cut.  "  I 
must  cut  pieces  out  of  your  trousers,"  said  Amos, 
"  and  stop  the  leaks,  or  we  shall  be  drowned.  Mine 
are  too  thick  cloth." 


'THE    LITTLE     BOYS,    HALF     CRYING,    HELD     FAST    BY    THE    SIDES 
OF  THE  BOAT." 


43 


THE  JIMMYJOHNS'   SAILOR-SUITS.  45 

He  took  out  his  jack-knife  as  quick  as  ever  he  could, 
and  cut  pieces  from  their  trousers,  and  stuffed  the 
pieces  into  the  cracks.  Even  this  did  not  wholly  keep 
the  water  from  coming  in :  so,  just  as  soon  as  they 
got  past  the  rocks,  .Amos  steered  the  boat  to  the  land ; 
and  there  he  pulled  her  up,  the  Jimmyjohns  pushing 
behind. 

By  this  time  it  was  after  sunset.  Amos  emptied 
all  the  grapes,  except  those  in  his  basket,  out  upon  the 
ground  behind  a  log,  and  covered  them  with  dry  sea 
weed.  He  let  the  Jimmies  have  a  part  of  what  were 
in  their  handkerchiefs.  They  all  started  then  to  walk 
along  the  sands.  As  the  jackets  were  too  wet  to  be 
worn,  each  boy  carried  his  own  on  his  arm.  The  Jim 
mies  took  turns  in  canying  Snip.  In  this  manner  they 
walked  for  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  mile  to  the  place  they 
started  from.  There  were  two  men  coming  down 
toward  the  water.  As  soon  as  Amos  saw  those  two 
men,  he  ran  away ;  for  one  was  Mr.  Plummer,  and  the 
other  was  the  umbrella-man.  The  umbrella-man,  it 
seems,  had  told  Mr.  Plummer  that  he  saw  his  little 
"boys  in  the  field  with  Amos  Dyke,  and  had  come  to 
help  him  find  them. 

Mrs.  Plummer  sat  up  very  late  that  Saturday  night. 


46  THE  JIMMYJOHNS. 

CHAPTER  V. 

A   LEAF   FROM   A   LITTLE    GIRL'S   DIARY. 

I  AM  going  to  put  some  things  about  Effle  in  my 
diary  ;  and  this  is  the  reason  why  I  am  going  to  put 
them  in :  My  mother  says,  when  Effie  is  a  great  girl 
she  will  like  to  read  some  of  the  things  she  did  and 
said  when  she  was  three  years  old.  And  so  will  the 
Jimnryjohns  when  they  grow  up  ;  and  so  I  shall  put  in 
some  of  their  things,  too,  when  I  have  done  putting  in 
some  of  Effie 's  things.  The  Jimmyjohns  are  my  little 
brothers,  both  of  them  twins,  just  alike. 

One  time,  Effie  wanted  to  be  dressed  up  in  her  best 
clothes  to  go  up  in  the  tree  and  see  the  sun-birds.  She 
thinks  that  the  tops  of  the  trees  are  close  up  to  the 
place  where  the  sun  is,  and  that  makes  her  call  birds 
sun-birds.  And  she  thinks  the  birds  light  up  the  stars 
every  night.  My  mother  asked  her,  "  What  makes 
you  think  the  birds  light  up  the  stars  every  night  ?" 
and  Effie  said,  "  Because  they  have  some  wings  to  fly 
high  up." 

My  father  brought  me  home  a  pudding-pan  to  make 
little  puddings  in.  It  doesn't  hold  very  much  :  it  holds 
most  a  cupful.  And  Joey  Moonbeam  is  going  to  have 
a  party ;  and,  when  she  does,  my  mother  is  going  to 
show  me  how  to  make  a  pudding  in  it.  Joey  Moon 
beam  is  my  very  great  rag-baby.  She  has  got  a  new 
hat.  I  made  it.  Cousin  Hiram  says  he  is  going  to 
draw  a  picture  of  it  on  Joey  Moonbeam's  head  in  my 


A  LEAF   FROM   A   LITTLE   GIEL's   DIARY.      4T 


diary  before  she  wears  it  all  out.  Betsey  Ginger  is 
going  to  have  some  new  clothes  to  wear  to  Joey  Moon 
beam's  party  ;  and 
Dorothy  Beeswax  is 
going  to  have  one  new 
arm  sewed  on.  Susan 
Sugarspoon,  and  Eu- 
dora  N.  Posy,  and  Jen 
ny  Popovcr,  are  not 
careful  of  their  clothes, 
and  so  they  cannot 
have  some  new  ones. 
N.  stands  for  Nightin 
gale.  Dear  little  Polly 
Cologne  was  the  very 
smallest  one  of  them 
all.  She  was  the  baby 
rag-baby.  She  was  just  as  cunning,  and  she  had  hair 
that  wasn't  ra veilings.  It  was  hair  ;  and  all  the  others 
have  ravcllings.  Her  cheeks  were  painted  pink.  She 
had  four  bib-aprons,  and  she  had  feet.  We  don't 
know  where  she  is.  Rover — that  little  dog  that  we 
used  to  have  —  carried  her  off  in  his  mouth,  and  now 
she  is  lost.  Rover  went  away  to  find  her  when  I  told 
him  to,  and  he  did  not  come  back.  We  don't  know 
where  Rover  is.  We  think  somebody  stole  him,  or  else 
he  would  be  heard  of.  We  feel  very  sorry.  He  was  a 
good  little  dog.  My  father  says  he  was  only  pla3'ing 
when  he  carried  her  off. 

I  love  all  my  rag-babies.  I  love  Snip,  but  not  so 
much  as  I  do  Rover.  I  love  dear  little  baby-brother. 
I  love  the  Jimmies,  both  of  them.  I  love  Effie,  and 


48  THE  JIMMYJOHNS. 

I  love  my  mother,  and  my  father,  and  grandma  Rum 
mer.  I  don't  love  aunt  Bethiah.  Aunt  Bethiah  does 
not  love  little  girls.  When  little  girls  have  a  pudding- 
pan,  aunt  Bethiah  says  it  is  all  nonsense  for  them  to 
have  them.  My  mother  said  I  might  have  raisins  in 
my  pudding.  I  like  to  pick  over  raisins.  Sometimes 
my  mother  lets  me  eat  six  when  I  pick  them  over,  and 
sometimes  she  lets  me  eat  eight.  Then  I  shut  up  my 
e}Tes,  and  pick  all  the  rest  over  with  them  shut  up,  be 
cause  then  I  cannot  see  how  good  they  look.  Grandma 
Plummer  told  me  this  way  to  do.  Effie  is  not  big 
enough.  She  would  put  them  in  her  arm-basket.  She 
puts  every  thing  in  her  arm-basket.  She  carries  it  on 
her  arm  all  the  time,  and  carries  it  to  the  table,  and  up 
to  bed.  My  mother  hangs  it  on  the  post  of  her  crib. 
When  she  sits  up  to  the  table,  she  hangs  it  on  her  chair. 

One  time,  when  the  Jimmies  were  very  little  bo}Ts, 
they  picked  up  two  apples  that  did  not  belong  to  them 
under  Mr.  Spencer's  apple-tree,  and  ate  a  part.  Then, 
when  they  were  eating  them,  a  woman  came  to  the 
door,  and  said,  "Didn't  you  know  that  you  mustn't 
pick  up  apples  that  are  not  your  own?"  After  she 
went  in,  the  Jimmies  carried  them  back,  and  put  them 
down  under  the  tree  in  the  same  place  again. 

I  am  going  to  tell  what  Effie  puts  in  her  arm-basket. 
Two  curtain-rings^  one  steel  pen  she  found,  some  spools, 
some  strings,  one  bottle  (it  used  to  be  a  smelling- 
bottle)  ,  my  father's  letter  when  he  was  gone  away,  a 
little  basket  that  Hiram  made  of  a  nutshell,  a  head 
of  one  little  china  doll,  Betsey  Beeswax  sometimes, 
and  sometimes  one  of  the  other  ones,  a  peach-stone 
to  plant,  a  glass  eye  of  a  bird  that  was  not  a  live 


A  LEAF  FKOM   A  LITTLE  GIRL'S   DIARY.      49 

one,  and  a  pill-box,  and  a  piece  of  red  glass,  and  pink 
calico,  and  an  inkstand,  and  her  beads,  and  a  foot  of  a 
doll.  One  time  it  got  tipped  over  when  we  pla}^ed 
"  Siren."  Mr.  Tompkins  was  in  here  when  we  played 
"  Siren."  He  looked  funny  with  the  things  on.  Cous 
in  Floy  told  us  how  to  play  it.  The  one  that  is  the 
siren  has  to  put  on  a  woman's  bonnet  and  a  shawl, 
and  then  go  under  the  table,  and  then  sing  under 
there,  and  catch  the  ones  that  come  close  up  when  they 
run  by.  I  caught  Hiram's  foot.  Hiram  was  so  tall, 
he  could  not  get  all  under.  Cousin  Floy  stood  up  in  a 
chair  to  put  the  bonnet  on  him.  My  father  did  not 
sing  a  good  tune :  it  was  not  any  tune,  but  a  noise. 
My  mother  did,  and  cousin  Floy  did  too.  Mr.  Tomp 
kins  squealed.  Mr.  Tompkins  could  get  way  under. 
The  one  that  is  caught  has  to  be  the  siren.  Soon  as 
the  siren  begins  to  sing,  then  the  others  go  that  way  to 
listen,  and  go  by  as  fast  as  they  can.  The  siren  jumps 
out  and  catches  them.  My  father  got  caught.  He  did 
not  want  to  put  on  the  bonnet ;  but  he  did.  He  did  not 
sing  a  bad  tune  like  Hiram's,  but  a  pretty  bad  one. 
He  made  it  up  himself.  My  mother  told  Hiram  that 
sirens  did  not  howl.  When  Johnny  was  caught,  Jimmy 
went  under  there  too,  and  had  another  bonnet ;  and 
they  both  jumped  out  together  to  catch.  The  tune  the 
Jimmies  sung  was,  — 

"Toodle-doo  was  a  dandy  cock-robin: 
He  tied  up  his  tail  with  a  piece  of  blue  "bobbin." 

Effie  was  afraid  to  go  under.  Her  arm-basket  got  up 
set,  and  made  her  cry.  Snip  flew  at  Hiram  when  Hiram 
caught  Johnny.  He  went  linder,  too,  when  they  went 


50  THE  JIMMYJOHNS. 

under,  and  barked  most  all  the  time.  I  was  the  one 
that  got  caught  the  most  times,  and  so  then  I  had  to 
be  judged  ;  and  I  chose  cousin  Floy  for  my  judge,  and 
she  judged  me  to  tell  a  story. 

We  are  going  to  have  pumpkin  for  dinner.  Joey 
Moonbeam's  party  is  going  to  be  a  soap-bubble  party. 
When  Clarence  was  the  siren,  he  sang,  — 

"Hop,  hop,  hop! 
Go,  and  never  stop." 

Sometimes  Clarence  stops  to  play  with  us  when  he 
comes  here.  My  mother  says  he  is  a  very  good  boy. 
His  father  is  dead  :  his  mother  is  sick ;  so  is  his  little 
brother.  He  has  got  two  little  brothers  and  two  little 
sisters.  They  do  not  have  enough  to  eat.  He  comes 
here  to  get  the  cold  victuals  my  mother  has  done  using. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

A    LITTLE    GIRL'S     STORY. 

MRS.  PLUMMER  holding  "  Josephus,"  and  Mr. 
Plummer,  and  grandma  Plummer,  and  Hiram,  take 
seats  in  the  row,  and  play  they  are  little  children  like 
the  rest,  waiting  to  hear  the  story.  Hiram,  sometimes 
called  "the  growler,"  sits  on  a  cricket,  his  long  legs 
reaching  across  a  breadth  and  a  half  of  the  carpet. 
Annetta  seats  herself  in  front  of  the  row. 

"  Shall  I  make  it  up  true,  or  '  fictisher '  ?  "  she  asks. 
Annetta' s  true  stories  tell  of  things  which  have  really 


51 


happened.  The  "  fictishers  "  are  usually  one  solid  mass 
of  giants.  In  fact,  her  hearers  have  had  so  many  and 
so  very  monstrous  giants  lately,  that  they  can't  stand 
any  more,  and  ask  that  Annetta  shall  "make  it  up 
true  "  this  time ;  though,  of  course,  what  is  true  can't 
be  made  up. 

"  Well,  if  I  make  it  up  true/'  says  Annetta,  "  I  shall 
make  it  about  the  Jimmyjohns."  (The  Jimmies,  who 
are  seated  t6gether  in  the  row,  look  very  smiling  at 
this.)  "All  be  very  quiet,"  Annetta  goes  on,  "and 
keep  in  the  row.  Mr.  Growly  must  not  interrupt  so 
much  as  he  does  most  every  time,  because  it«'s  every 
word  true. 

' '  Once  there  were  two  little  twinnies  named  the  Jim- 
nryjohns,  just  as  big  as  each  other,  and  just  as  old,  and 
just  alike.  And  one  day,  when  Joey  Moonbeam  was 
going  to  have  a  soap-bubble  party,  Annetta  (me  ;  but  I 
mustn't  say  me,  you  know)  — Annetta  wanted  to  make 
a  pudding  in  her  little  pudding-pan,  and  her  mother  said 
she  might.  And  her  mother  gave  her  some  grease,  so 
it  needn't  stick  on,  and  told  how  many  teaspoonfuls  of 
sugar  to  take,  and  milk  and  cracker,  and  twenty  cur 
rants  (because  currants  are  smaller  than  raisins  are) . 
And  one  egg  was  too  many  for  such  a  little  one,  and 
she  couldn't  think  wrhat  to  tell  about  that :  and  Mr. 
Growly  said  humming-birds'  eggs  would  be  the  right 
size  for  such  a  little  one  ;  and  he  asked  the  Jimmyjohns 
if  they  would  chase  some  humming-birds  home  and  get 
their  eggs,  and  they  said  '  Yes.'  But  he  was  only  fun 
ning  with  them.  And  he  took  a  little  red  box  with 
white  on  top  of  it,  that  used  to  be  a  pill-box,  out  of 
Effie's  basket — she  let  him — for  them  to  put  the  eggs 


52  THE  JIMMY  JOHNS. 

in  when  they  found  any,  and  put  two  white  sugar-lumps 
in  the  box  ;  and  their  mother  said,  when  they  found  the 
eggs,  they  could  eat  the  sugar-lumps  up,  and  put  the 
eggs  in  there. 

"  And  first  they  went  behind  the  syringa-bush  ;  and, 
when  one  came,  they  said,  '  Sh ! '  and  began  to  crawl 
out.  But  Johnny  tried  to  stop  a  sneeze's  coming  ;  and 
so  that  sneeze  made  a  funny  noise  in  his  nose,  and 
scared  it  away. 

"And  first  it  went  to  the  sweet-peas;  and  then  it 
flew  to  some  wild  rose-bushes  over  the  fence,  and  then 
to  sometother  places.  And  they  chased  it  everywhere 
it"  went.  And  then  it  flew  across  a  field  where  there 
was  a  swamp  ;  and,  when  they  came  to  the  swamp,  they 
couldn't  find  it  anywhere.  And  they  saw  a  boy  there, 
and  that  boy  told  them  maybe  it  flew  over  the  hills. 
Then  they  went  over  the  hills,  and  it  took  them  a  great 
while.  And  pretty  soon  there  came  along  a  little  girl, 
and  her  name  was  Minnie  Gray ;  and  she  came  to  pick 
flowers  in  a  basket  for  another  girl  that  was  sick,  and 
couldn't  go  out  doors  to  smell  the  sweet  flowers.  And 
she  asked  them  where  they  were  going  ;  and  they  said 
to  find  humming-birds'  eggs  for  Annetta  to  put  in  her 
pudding,  because  Joey  Moonbeam  was  going  to  have  a 
soap-bubble  party.  And  they  asked  her  if  she  knew 
where  humming-birds  laid  their  eggs,  and  she  said 
she  guessed  in  a  lily ;  and  tliey  asked  her  where  any 
lilies  grew,  and  she  said  in  her  mother's  front-yard; 
and  they  asked  her  if  they  might  go  into  her  mother's 
front-yard  and  look,  and  she  said  they  might.  Then 
they  went  over  to  Minnie  Gray's  house,  and  went  into 
her  mother's  front-yard,  and  looked  in  every  one  of  the 


A  LITTLE  GITIL'S   STOKY.  53 

lilies,  but  couldn't  find  one.  And  pretty  soon  they 
saw  the  funny  man,  that  mends  umbrellas,  coming  out 
of  a  house  with  some  umbrellas  that  he  had  to  mend  ; 
and  he  asked  them  where  they  were  going,  and  they 
said  to  find  some  humming-birds'  eggs  for  Annetta  to 
put  in  her  pudding  that  she  was  going  to  make  in  her 
pudding-pan,  because  Joey  Moonbeam  was  going  to 
have  a  soap-bubble  party.  And  they  asked  him  if  he 
knew  where  to  look  for  them,  and  he  said  they'd  better 
climb  up  in  a  tree  and  look.  Then  he  went  into 
another  house ;  and  then  the}7  climbed  up  into  Mr. 
Bumpus's  apple-tree  and  looked,  and  couldn't  find  any ; 
and  Mr.  Bumpus's  shaggy  dog  came  out  and  barked, 
and  Mr.  Bumpus's  boy  drove  him  away ;  and  a  limb 
broke  with  Johnny,  and  so  he  fell  down,  and  it  hurt 
him,  and  made' him  cry. 

"  And  Mr.  Bumpus  called  the  dog,  and  told  them  to 
never  climb  up  there  and  break  his  limbs  off  any  more. 
And  then  they  went  along ;  and  pretty  soon  the  funny 
man  came  out  of  another  house,  and  asked  them  if  they 
had  found  any  humming-birds'  eggs,  and  they  said  '  No.' 
Then  he  told  them  butterflies  laid  theirs  on  the  backs 
of  leaves  :  so  they'd  better  go  and  look  on  the  backs  of 
leaves,  and  see  if  humming-birds  did  so.  So  they  went 
into  a  woman's  flower-garden,  and  turned  some  of  the 
leaves  over,  and  looked  on  the  backs  of  them ;  and  a 
cross  woman  came  out  and  told  them  to  be  off,  and  not 
be  stepping  on  her  flower-roots.  And  the  fumry  man 
was  coming  out  of  a  house  way  long  the  road  ;  and, 
when  they  came  up  to  Mm,  he  asked  them  if  they'd 
found  any,  and  they  said  'No.'  Then  he  laughed  ;  and 
he  told  them  that  mosquitoes  stuck  their  eggs  together, 


54  THE   JIMMYJOHNS. 

and  let  them  float  on  the  water  in  a  bunch  together,  and 
they'd  better  go  over  to  the  pond  and  look  there.  So 
they  went  over  to  the  pond,  and  he  sat  down  to  wait ; 
and  they  went  and  looked,  and  came  right  back  again, 
and  said  they  didn't  see  any.  Then  he  told  them  water- 
spiders  laid  theirs  in  water-bubbles  under  the  water, 
and  he  said  they'd  better  go  back  and  look  again.  So 
they  went  back  and  paddled  in  the  water,  and  couldn't 
see  any  eggs  in  any  of  the  bubbles,  and  got  their  shoes 
and  stockings  very  muddy  with  wet  mud.  And,  when 
they  went  back,  there  was  another  man  talking  with  the 
funny  man  ;  and  that  other  man  told  them  that  ostriches 
laid  eggs  in  the  ground  for  the  sun  to  hatch  them  out, 
and  they'd  better  go  dig  in  the  ground.  The  funny  man 
and  that  other  man  laughed  very  much  ;  and  they  went 
away  after  that.  And  then  the  Jimmies  got  over  a 
fence  into  a  garden,  because  the  ground  was  very  soft 
there,  and  began  to  dig  in  the  ground  ;  and,  when  they 
had  dug  a  great  hole,  a  man  came  up  to  them,  and  scolded 
at  them  for  digging  that  hole  in  his  garden,  and  he 
made  them  dig  it  back  again.  And  I've  forgot  where 
they  went  then.  Oh,  I  know  now  !  " 

"  Up  on  the  hill !  "  cry  the  Jimmies  both  together. 

"  Oh,  yes  !  I  know  now.  Then  they  went  up  on  the 
hill ;  and  there  was  a  boy  up  there,  and  that  boy  told 
them  maybe  humming-birds  had  nests  in  the  grass,  just 
like  ground-sparrows.  But  they  could  not  find  one ; 
and,  when  they  were  tired  of  looking,  they  sat  down  on 
the  top  of  the  hill.  And  by  and  by  Mr.  Bumpus  came 
along,  and  his  wife  (that's  'Mrs.  Bumpus)  ;  and  she 
asked  them  if  they  had  seen  Dan  (that's  Dan  Bum- 
pus)  ,  and  they  said  'No.'  Then  she  said  she  and  Mr. 


A  LITTLE  GIRL'S   STORY.  55 

Bumpus  were  going  to  a  picnic,  and  Dan  was  going. 
And  she  said  they  were  going  by  the  new  roadway ; 
and  she  asked  them  if  they  would  wait  there  till  Dan 
canie,  and  tell  Dan  to  go  by  the  new  roadway.  And 
they  promised  to  wait,  and  tell  Dan.  So  they  waited 
there  a  very  long  time,  and  didn't  want  to  stay  there 
any  longer ;  but  they  did,  so  as  to  tell  Dan  what  they 
said  they  would.  And  then  it  was  most  noon ;  and 
Johnny  said  he  was  hungry,  and  Jimmy  said  he  was 
too.  The  funny  man  saw  them  sitting  up  on  top  of 
the  hill ;  and  he  went  up  softly  and  got  behind  some 
bushes  when  they  didn't  see  him,  and  looked  through. 
And  one  of  them  wanted  to  go  home  ;  and  the  other 
one  said,  '  'Twon't  do,  'cause  we  must  tell  Dan  what 
we  said  we  would.'  So  they  waited  ever  so  long.  And 
the  one  that  had  the  red  box  took  it  out  and  opened  it ; 
and  both  of  'em  looked  in,  and  one  of  'em  asked  the 
other  one  if  he  s' posed  their  mother  would  care  if  they 
ate  up  the  sugar ;  and  the  other  said  mother  told  them 
the}'  might  eat  the  sugar-lumps  when  they  found  the 
eggs :  so  they  didn't  know  what  to  do.  And,  while 
they  were  looking  at  it,  they  heard  a  great  humming 
noise  in  among  the  bushes.  Then  they  crawled  along 
toward  the  bushes,  softly  as  they  could,  to  see  what 
was  humming  there.  And  they  didn't  see  any  thing  at 
first :  so  they  crawled  along  and  peeped  round  on  the 
other  side,  and  there  they  saw  something  very  strange. 
They  saw  an  old  broken  umbrella  all  spread  open,  and 
a  green  bush  hanging  down  from  it,  and  they  saw  the 
feet  of  a  man  under  the  bush  ;  and  the  humming  came 
from  behind  that  umbVella.  The  funny  man  was  be 
hind  there  humming,  but  ikcy  didn't  know  it ;  and  he 


56  THE  JIMMYJOHNS. 

was  looking  through  a  hole.  And,  when  they  crawled 
up  a  little  bit  nearer  to  see  what  made  that  humming 
noise,  he  turned  round  with  the  umbrella,  so  they  could 
not  see  behind  that  umbrella ;  and,  every  time  they 
crawled  another  way,  he  turned  round  so  they  could 
not  see  behind  that  umbrella ;  and  when  they  began 
to  cry,  because  they  felt  scared,  he  took  down  the  um 
brella,  and  that  made  them  laugh. 

' '  The  baker  was  coming  along  the  new  road  ;  and  the 
funny  man  stopped  him,  and  bought  two  seed-cakes  of 
him  for  the  Jimmies.  And  he  told  them  they  needn't 
wait  any  longer  for  Dan,  for  Dan  had  gone  by  another 
way,  riding  in  a  cart.  Then  he  came  home  with  the 
Jimnryjohns;  and,  when  they  got  most  to  the  barn,  they 
saw  me  —  no,  I  mean  saw  a  little  girl  named  Annetta 
(but  it  was  myself,  you  know)  ;  and  the  funny  man  put 
up  his  old  umbrella,  and  began  to  hum  ;  and  he  told  her 
to  hark,  and  hear  a  great  humming-bird  hum  ;  and  that 
made  me  —  no,  made  the  little  girl  laugh.  And  she 
wanted  him  to  keep  humming ;  and  she  went  in  and 
told  the  folks  to  all  come  out  and  see  a  great  big  hum 
ming-bird.  So  the  folks  came  out,  and  he  kept  moving 
the  old  umbrella  so  they  couldn't  see  who  was  humming 
behind  there.  And  when  they  tried  to  get  behind  him, 
so  as  to  see  who  was  humming  there,  he  went  backward 
up  against  the  barn  ;  but  one  of  them  went  in  the  barn 
and  poked  a  stick  through  a  crack  and  tickled  his  neck, 
and  that  made  him  jump  away.  Then  Annetta' s  father 
said  he  knew  where  there  was  a  humming-bird's  nest. 
Then  they  all  went  across  a  field  to  some  high  bushes  ; 
and  Mr.  Plummer  lifted  up  the  little  children  so  we 
could  look  in ;  and  there  we  saw  two  very,  very  tiny, 


THE  BAD  LUCK  OF  BUBBY  CRYAWAY.    57 

tinj- white  eggs,  about  as  big  as  little  white  beans.  The 
Jimmies  wanted  Annetta  to  take  them  to  put  in  her 
pudding ;  but  the  funny  man  said  the}T'd  better  not. 
He  said  he  had  read  in  a  story-book,  that,  if  you  ate 
humming-birds'  eggs,  you  would  have  to  hum  all  your 
life  forever  after.  And  so,"  said  Annetta,  looking  at 
the  row  from  one  end  to  the  other,  "  the  pudding  never 
got  made  in  the  pudding-pan  for  Joey  Moonbeam's 
soap-bubble  party." 


CHAPTER    VII. 

THE   BAD    LTJCK   OF   BUBBY   CRYAWAY. 

THE  Jimnvyjohns  are  never  happy  when  their  faces 
are  being  washed.  Perhaps  it  is  no  more  than 
right  to  tell  the  whole  truth  of  the  matter,  and  confess 
that  the}^  cry  aloud  at  such  times,  and  also  drop  tears 
into  the  wash-basin ;  which  is  a  foolish  thing  to  do, 
seeing  there  is  then  water  enough  already  in  it. 

One  morning,  as  little  Mr.  Tompkins,  the  lobster- 
man,  came  wheeling  his  wheelbarrow  of  lobsters  up  to 
the  back-door  of  the  cottage,  he  met  the  Jimnryjohns 
scampering  off  quite  fast.  After  them  ran  Annetta, 
calling  out,  "  Come  back,  come  back,  you  little  Jimmy- 
John  Plummers  ! "  Effic,  standing  in  the  doorway, 
shouted,  "Turn  back,  turn  back,  oo  ittle  Dimnrydon 
Pummcrs  ! "  Mrs.  Plummer,  from  the  open  window, 
cried,  "  BO}TS,  boys,  come  and  be  washed  before  you 
go  !  "  Hiram  said  nothing  ;  but,  by  taking  a  few  steps 
with  those  long  legs  of  his,  he  got  in  front  of  the  run- 


58  THE   JIMMYJOHNS. 

aways,  and  turned  them  back,  making  motions  with  his 
hands  as  if  he  had  been  driving  two  little  chickens. 
Mr.  Tompkins  took  one  under  each  arm,  and  presented 
them  to  Mrs.  Plummer.  Mrs.  Plummer  led  them  into 
another  room.  Strange  sounds  were  heard  from  that 
room  ;  but,  when  the  ones  who  made  those  sounds  were 
led  back  again,  their  rosy  cheeks  were  beautiful  to  see. 

Mr.  Tompkins  sat  with  a  broad  smile  on  his  face.  He 
seemed  not  to  be  noticing  the  two  little  boys,  but  to  be 
smiling  at  his  own  thoughts :  and,  the  while  he  sat 
thinking,  the  smile  upon  his  face  grew  broader,  his 
eyes  twinkled  at  the  corners,  his  lips  parted,  his  shoulders 
shook ;  there  came  a  chuckle,  chuckle,  chuckle,  in  his 
throat ;  and  then  he  burst  out  laughing. 

"  I  was  thinking,"  said  he,  "  of  a  boy  who  —  think 
ing  of  a  boy  I  used  to  know  a  long  time  ago,  down  in 
Jersey,  who  —  who  tried  to  get  rid  of  a  small  wetting, 
and  got  a  big  one.  I  shall  have  to  tell  you  about  that 
smart  chap  :  I  knew  him  very  well.  He  was  afraid  to 
have  his  face  washed,  even  when  he  had  grown  to  be 
quite  a  large  bo}r ;  and  also  afraid  to  have  his  hair  cut. 
Sometimes  in  the  morning,  when  his  mother  forgot  to 
shut  the  windows  before  she  began,  people  would  burst 
into  the  house,  asking,  '  What's  the  matter?  Anybod}^ 
tumbled  down  stairs,  or  out  the  chamber- window,  or  got 
scalded,  or  broken  any  bones?" 

"  Why,  did  he  cry  as  loud  as  that?"  asked  Annetta. 

11  Oh,  yes!-  and  pulled  back,  and  twisted  his  shoul 
ders,  and  turned  his  head  the  wrong  way.  I  can  tell 
you  it  was  hard  work  getting  him  ready  to  go  out  in 
the  morning.  The  boys  called  him  '  Bubby  Cr}~away.' 
They  were  alwaj'S  watching  for  chances  to  wet  him. 


THE  BAD  LUCK  OF  BUBBY  CRYAWAY.    59 

If  he  passed  near  a  puddle,  splash  would  come  a  great 
stone  into  the  water !  When  he  staid  out  after  sunset, 
they  would  begin  to  shout,  '  Better  go  in,  Bubby :  the 
dew's  a-falling!'  Sometimes  they  called  him  '  Dry- 
Goods.' 

11  But  this  is  what  I  was  laughing  about.  One  morn 
ing  he  thought  he  would  start  out  early,  before  his 
sisters  said  any  thing  about  washing  his  face,  or  cut 
ting  his  hair.  They  had  then  been  coaxing  him  for 
a  long,  long  time  to  have  his  hair  cut.  So  he  crept 
down  the  back-stairs,  and  across  the  back-yard,  and 
through  a  back-alley,  which  took  him  into  the  worst- 
looking  street  in  town.  Here  he  met  a  fellow  named 
Davy  Bangs.  Davy  Bangs 's  mother  kept  a  little  shop 
in  that  street :  I've  bought  fish-hooks  of  her  many's  the 
time.  Davy  Bangs  asked  him  if  he  were  going  to  the 
circus.  He  said  '  No  : '  he  hadn't  any  money.  Davy 
Bangs  asked  him  why  he  didn't  catch  frogs,  and  sell 
them  to  the  circus-riders.  He  asked  Davy  if  the  circus- 
riders  would  bu}r  them. 

"  '  Yes,  and  be  glad  to,'  said  Davy.  '  They  eat  the 
hind-quarters :  that's  what,  makes  'em  jump  so  high. 
And  if  you'll  go  over  to  Dutch  Meadows/  said  Davy^ 
'  to  that  little  swamp  they  call  Duck  Swamp,  you  can 
dip  up  frogs  with  a  dip-net ;  and,  if  }*ou  want  a  dip-net, 
I'll  lend  3~ou  our  old  one.' 

"  He  went  and  got  Davy  Bangs  's-old  dip-net,  and  was 
hunying  along  the  streets  with  it,  when  a  ragged  coun 
try-boy —  who  had  come  in  to  the  circus,  I  suppose  — 
cried  out,  — 

"•  i  Halloo,  little  fisherman  !  The  man  that  keeps  the 
furniture-store  wants  you.' 


60  THE   JIMMYJOHNS. 

"Bubby  turned  back  and  found  the  furniture-store, 
and  went  in ;  and  there  he  stood,  waiting,  waiting, 
waiting,  till  at  last  a  workman  ordered  him  off.  As  he 
was  walking  away,  he  saw  the  country-boy  grinning  at 
him  from  around  a  corner,  and  shouted,  — 

"  '  The  man  didn't  want  me  !  Now,  what  did  you  say 
that  for?' 

"  'I  thought  he'd  want  your  hair  to  stuff  cushions 
with  ! '  cried  the  boy,  and  then  ran  off." 

"Now,  I  think  that  was  mean  enough!  "  said  An 
ne  tta. 

"Pray,  Mr.  Tompkins,  go  on,"  said  Mrs.  Plummer. 
"  I  want  to  hear  what  happened  to  the  little  fisherman." 

"  Plenty  of  things  happened  to  him,"  said  Mr.  Tomp 
kins.  "  He  had  to  run  so  fast,  to  make  up  for  waiting, 
that  he  stumbled  over  cellar-doors,  and  tumbled  down 
half  a  dozen  times,  besides  bumping  against  everybody 
he  met.  When  he  came  to  Dutch  Meadows,  he  turned 
down  a  lane,  thinking  there  might  be  a  short  cut  that 
way  to  Duck  Swamp.  This  lane  took  him  past  the 
house  of  a  Mr.  Spleigelspruch."  Here  the  chuckling 
sound  came  into  Mr.  Tompkins 's  throat  again ;  and 
presently  he  burst  into  a  hearty  laugh. 

"  Now,  do  please  tell  us  ;  then  we  can  laugh  ;  but  now 
we  can't,"  said  Annetta. 

"  I  will,"  said  he.  "  I'll  tell  — I'll  tell  — he,  he,  he, 
he,  he!— I'll  tell* right  away.  That  Mr.  Spleigel 
spruch  was  a  Dutchman,  —  a  short,  fat,  near-sighted, 
cross  old  Dutchman.  His  wife  took  in  washing.  His 
wife's  sister,  and  his  wife's  sister's  sister-in-law  Win- 
freda,  lived  in  another  part  of  the  same  house,  and  they 
took  in  washing  too.  Winfreda  was  poor,  and  the  other 


THE  BAD  LUCK  OF  BUBBY  CRYAWAY.    61 

woman  made  her  do  all  the  hardest  jobs  of  work.  Mr. 
Spleigelspruch  got  his  living  by  selling  eggs,  poultry, 
and  garden-stuff,  and  by  raising  the  uncommon  kinds 
of  fowls,  —  fowls  which  brought  high  prices.  He  was 
troubled  a  good  deal  by  boys  coming  around  there, 
chasing  his  hens  and  stealing  his  eggs,  and  trampling 
on  the  clean  clothes  spread  out  on  the  grass.  I  sup 
pose  that  was  what  made  him  so  cross." 

"  And  did  that  old  cross  man  touch  that  boy  ?  "  asked 
Johnny  Plummer. 

"I  should  think  he  did  touch  that  boy!"  said  Mr. 
Tompkins.  "  Yes,  yes,  yes  !  — he,  he,  he,  he  !  — I'll 
tell  you  how  it  was.  Just  as  the  boy  got  to  Mr.  Splei- 
gelspruch's,  a  dozen  or  more  people  came  running  down 
the  lane,  screaming,  'Elephant,  elephant! — the  ele 
phant's  a-coming  ! '  There  wasn't  a  word  of  truth  in 
this  story.  A  few  boys  in  town  had  shouted,  '  The 
elephant's  coming ! '  meaning  he  was  coming  with  the 
circus :  and  some  folks  who  heard  them  thought 
the  elephant  had  got  away  from  his  keeper ;  and  they 
shouted  and  ran,  and  this  made  others  shout  and  run, 
and  this  made  others,  and  this  made  others ;  so  that 
there  was  great  confusion.  Carriages  were  upset,  win 
dows  smashed  in,  children  jostled  about ;  and  some  of 
the  people  were  so  scared,  they  ran  out  of  town  away 
past  Mr.  Spleigelspruch' s. 

u  Now,  on  this  very  day,"  continued  Mr.  Tompkins, 
looking  more  and  more  smiling,  "Mr.  Spleigelspruch 
had  received  from  his  cousin  in  Germany,  Mr.  Lockken, 
a  pair  of  very  rare  fowls  called  the  '  eagle-billed  robin- 
fowl.'  They  were  very  uncommon  fowls  indeed.  The 
rooster  was  different  from  common  roosters'  in  three 


62  THE   JIMMYJOHNS. 

ways,  — in  the  tone  of  its  voice,  in  the  hang  of  its  tail- 
feathers,  and  in  the  shape  of  its  bill.  Its  bill  was 
shaped  very  much  like  an  eagle's  bill.  Mr.  Lockken 
had  taken  great  pains  to  improve  the  tone  of  voice. 
This  kind  of  thing  is  something  which  nobody  else 
*ever  did  ;  at  least,  nobody  that  I  ever  heard  of. 

"  '  If  I  can  only  cause  to  be  sweet  the  voices  of  the 
crowers,'  Mr.  Lockken  in  Germany  wrote  to  his  cousin, 
Mr.  Spleigelspruch,  'it  will  be  then  like  to  having  so 
many  monster  robins  about  our  door-yards.  Then 
shall  I  make  my  fortune.' 

"  Mr.  Lockken  began  on  a  kind  of  fowl  called  '  the 
eagle-billed  fowl,'  and  tried  experiments  upon  those  for 
a  number  of  years  ;  keeping  almost  every  thing  that  he 
did  a  secret,  of  course.  It  was  said  that  he  shut  up  the 
chicks,  as  soon  as  they  were  hatched,  in  a  large  cage  of 
singing-birds.  He  tried  a  good  many  kinds  of  food, 
oils  especially,  mixed  in  a  good  many  ways  ;  and  at 
last  —  so  he  wrote  his  cousin,  Mr.  Spleigelspruch  — 
he  did  get  a  new  kind  of  crowers,  Their  voices  were 
not  quite  as  musical  as  robins'  voices,  he  said ;  but 
the}7  were  remarkably  fine-toned.  He  called  them  the 
'eagle-billed  robin-fowl.'  Mr.  Spleigelspruch  bought 
the  first  pair  of  these  fowls  which  were  for  sale,  and  paid 
fifty  dollars  for  them ;  and  there  was  the  expense  of 
getting  them  over  here  besides.  They  arrived,  as  I 
said  just  now,  on  the  very  day  I  have  been  speaking  of; 
and,  as  the  place  where  they  were  to  stay  was  not  quite 
ready,  they  were  put,  for  a  short  time,  in  a  barrel  near 
a  board  fence,  quite  a  little  way  from  the  back-yard. 
Mr.  Lockken  said  in  his  letter,  that,  for  the  first  year, 
it  would  be  better  for  them  to  be  kept  as  far  out  of 


THE  BAD  LUCK  OF  BUBBY  CUTAWAY. 


63 


hearing    of   the    common    kinds   of   crowers   as   was 
possible. 

"Now,  that  chap  with  his  dip-net,  when  those  peo 
ple  yelled  so  about  the  elephant,  jumped  over  the  board 
fence  in  a  hurry,  and  happened  to  jump  right  down 


upon  that  barrel,  -and  knocked  it  over.  He  hit  another 
barrel  at  the  same  time,  and  let  out  a  duck,  — some  curi 
ous  kind  of  South-sea  duck,  I  think ;  but  that  wasn't 
so  much  matter.  When  he  came  down,  why,  over  went 
the  barrel,  and  over  went  he,  right  into  the  duck-pond ; 


64  THE   JIMMYJOHNS. 

and  out  flew  the  eagle-billed  robin-fowls.  Mr.  Splei- 
gelspruch  was  busy,  some  wa}~s  off,  getting  their  place 
ready.  The  first  that  he  knew  of  the  matter,  a  woman 
who  lived  in  the  next  house  screamed  to  him  that  some 
body  was  stealing  his  fowls.  He  saw  a  boy  running, 
and  gave  chase.  He  didn't  know  then  that  his  fowls 
had  got  away.  The  boy  tried  to  get  out  of  sight,  and 
ran  so  fast  he  didn't  mind  where  he  was  going,  and  so 
ran  over  some  clean  clothes  spread  out  on  the  grass. 
Mr.  Spleigelspruch's  wife  and  his  wife's  sister,  and  his 
wife's  sister's  sister-in-law  Winfreda,  came  out  with 
their  brooms  in  a  terrible  rage.  The  wife's  sister 
caught  hold  of  him,  and  the  wife  held  him  fast.  There 
was  a  tub  near  by,  which  had  some  rinsing-water  in  it ; 
and  .they  dropped  him  into  that,  and  held  him  down 
with  their  brooms,  and  sent  Winfreda  to  the  pump  for 
more  water.  The}T  said  they  would  souse  him.  Mr. 
Spleigelspruch  came  up,  bawling,  — 

"  '  Stop  thief!  Police  !  Hold  him  !  Rub  him  !  Give 
it  to  him  !  Drub  him  !  Scrub  him  !  " 

"He  caught  up  Winfroda's  broom,  but  didn't  use 
it  long  ;  for  in  a  minute  that  same  woman  ran  into  the 
yard,  screaming,  '  They've  got  away  !  — j'our  new  fowls 
have  got  away ! '  Then  thc}r  all  left  the  boy,  and  ran  to 
catch  the  fowls.  When  Winfreda  came  back  with  the 
water,  she  behaved  kindly  to  the  boy.  Winfreda  had 
lived  a  hard  life,  and  that  made  her  know  how  to  pity 
other  folks.  Bringing  the  water  along,  she  thought  to 
herself  (so  she  told  the  bo}r  afterward) ,  — 

"  '  Suppose  I  had  married  in  my  young  da}Ts,  and  sup 
pose  I  had  now  a  little  grandson,  and  suppose  he  were 
treated  like  that  boy,  —  oh,  how  badly  I  should  feel ! ' 


THE  BAD   LUCK   OF  BUBBY   CRYA"WAY.         65 

* '  She  took  him  out  of  the  water  ;  she  made  him  go 
up  stairs  and  get  between  the  blankets  of  her  own  bed  ; 
she  fed  him  with  broth ;  she  hung  his  clothes  on  the 
bushes  to  dry  ;  she  borrowed  another  suit  for  him ;  and 
she  let  him  out  into  the  street  through  a  place  where 
there  was  a  board  loose  in  the  fence.  Next  day  his 
father  took  the  clothes  back,  and  changed  them.  The 
fowls  had  jusfbeen  found  in  a  swamp.  It  was  thought 
that  some  country-people  coming  in  to  circus  caught 
them  the  day  before  and  carried  them  off,  and  that  the 
fowls  afterwards  got  away.  They  probably  staid  in  the 
swamp  all  night,  and  that  might  have  been  the  means 
of  their  death ;  though  it  might  have  been  the  sea- 
voj'age,  or  change  of  air,  or  home-sickness :  we  can't 
tell.  They  didn't  live  very  long  after  that." 

"  And  didn't  he  get  some  more?"  Annctta  asked. 

"No.  The  cousin  in  Germany  died  ;  and  his  fowls 
were  not  attended  to  ;  and  a  disease  got  among  them, 
and  carried  them  off.  Mr.  Spleigelspruch  told  me  the 
whole  story  after  I  grew  up." 

"What  a  pity,"  said  Hiram,  "that  those  musical 
fowl  couldn't  have  spread  over  the  country  !  'Twould 
be  a  fine  affair  to  have  all  the  roosters  singing  in  the 
morning,  instead  of  making  the  kind  of  noises  they  do 
make.  'Twould  be  like  an  oratorio." 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Plummer.  "  And  I  wish, 
for  my  part,  that  boy  had  staid  at-home.  I  suppose 
he  has  grown  up  by  this  time.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that 
he  washes  his  face,  and  also  that  he  doesn't  forget  poor 
Winfreda." 

"Oh,  no!"  said  Mr.  Tompkins,  stepping  out,  and 


66  THE  JIMMYJOHNS. 

taking  up  the  arms  of  his  wheelbarrow,  —  "  oh,  no !  I 
don't  forget  Winfreda.  I  send  her  lobsters  every 
spring." 

"You,  you!  what  do  you  send  her  lobsters  for?" 
asked  Mrs.  Plummer  and  Hiram,  both  speaking  at  once. 

Mr.  Tompkins  trundled  his  wheelbarrow  along  pretty 
fast,  laughing  away  to  himself;  and,  when  he  got  be 
yond  the  yard,  he  looked  over  his  shoulder  at  them  as 
they  stood  in  the  doorway,  and  called  out,  "  I  was  the 
boy!" 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

WHAT   MADE   MR.    TOMPKINS   LAUGH. 

ONE  afternoon,  when  the  Jimmyjohns  were  playing 
in  the  back-yard,  Mr.  Doty,  the  funny  man  as  we 
sometimes  call  him,  came  jogging  along.  When  he 
saw  the  little  boys,  he  stopped,  and  began  to  push  his 
hat  up  on  one  side,  and  to  scratch  his  head,  and  to 
twinkle  the  corners  of  his  eyes.  Then  he  began :  — 

"  Oh  !  you're  out  here,  so  you  are.  What  are  you 
doing?" 

"Making  a  flow,"  they  answered,  looking  up  from 
the  mud  and  water  in  which  they  stood. 

"  Hem  !  well,  why  don't  you  go  somewhere?" 

"Ma  won't  let  us." 

"  Won't  she?  Oh,  no,  she  won't !  will  she?  Well, 
hem  !  Why  don't  you  have  a  party?  " 

"  'Tisn't  our  birthday  yet !  "  cried  Johnny,  hopping 
tip  and  down  with  the  pump-handle. 


WHAT  MADE  MK.   TOMPKINS   LAUGH.         67 

"  Well,  why  not  have  a  cocoanut-party  ?  " 

"  We  haven't  got  any  cocoanut." 

"  Oh  !  I'll  find  a  cocoanut "  (holding  up  one)..  "  See 
here  !  Where  are  you  going  so  fast  ?  ' ' 

"  To  ask  ma  !  "  they  shouted,  running  in  doors. 

The  funny  man's  eyes  twinkled,  and  up  went  his 
hand  to  scratch  his  head  again.  Presently  they  popped 
their  heads  out,  and  asked,  — 

"  When  shall  we  have  it?  " 

"  Have  it  now,"  said  Mr.  Doty. 

u  Have  it  now,"  they  told  their  mother. 

"  Where?  "  asked  Mrs.  Plummer. 

"  She  says,  '  Where?  '  "  shouted  the  Jimmies. 

"  Out  here  on  the  grass,"  said  Mr.  Doty. 

"  Out  here  on  the  grass,"  the  Jimmies  repeated. 

"  Who's  to  be  invited?  "  asked  Mrs.  Plummer. 

"  Who's  to  be  invited?  "  asked  the  Jimmies. 

' '  Well  —  hem  !  Invite — anybody, ' '  said  Mr.  Doty. 
"  I'll  come  :  that  makes  one." 

"And  I'll  make  two,"  cried  Annetta,  looking  out 
of  the  window. 

"  What  is  it  ? —  a  party?  "  asked  Hiram,  stepping 
down  from  a  high  wood-pile  with  his  long  legs.  "  Oh, 
I'll  come  !  I'll  make  three  and  a  half.  What  kind  of 
a  party  is  it  ?  —  a  birthday-party  ?  ' ' 

"  Oh,  no,  indeed  !  "  said  Mr.  Doty.  "  Nothing  of 
that  sort.  'Tis  a  cocoanut-party." 

Just  then  little  Effie  came  trotting  along  with  her 
arm-basket. 

"  Can  you  come  to  our  part}'?  "  asked  Mr.  Doty. 

"  No,  I  tan't  turn,"  said  Effie  very  soberly. 

"What !  not  come  to  a  cocoanut-party  ?"  cried  Hiram. 


68"  THE   JIMMY  JOHNS. 

"  No,  I  tan't,  tause  my  tittens'  eyes  haven't  turn 
opened  'et,"  said  Effie. 

"  Ask  the  Jimnryjohns  to  wait  till  your  kittens'  eyes 
come  open,"  said  Hiram. 

Little  Effie  went  close  to  the  Jimmies,  looked  up  in 
their  faces,  and  said,  "  Dimmydons,  will  oo  wait  till  my 
tittens'  eyes  turn  opened?  " 

The  Jimmies  laughed ;  and  so  did  another  little  fel 
low  who  was  then  coming  out  of  the  house.  This  was 
Clarence,  —  a  poor  bo}^  who  came  every  day  with  his 
basket  to  get  what  food  was  to  be  given  away.  Some 
people  called  him  "  the  little  gentleman,"  because  he 
had  very  good  manners. 

"Do  you  want  to  stay  to  the  party?"  Mr.  Doty 
asked  Clarence. 

"  If  the  Jimmyjohns  will  let  me,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  yes,  you  may  come  !  "  they  shouted. 

"Can't  cousin  Floy  be  invited?"  asked  Annetta. 
"  She's  here  playing  with  me." 

"By  all  means,"  said  Hiram.  "And  there's  Mr. 
Tompkins  :  maybe  he'll  come  to  the  party." 

Mr.  Tompkins,  the  lobster  man,  had  dropped  his 
wheelbarrow,  and  come  to  look  over  the  fence. 

"Mr.  Tompkins  can't  leave  his  lobsters,"  said  Mr. 
Doty. 

"Party? — yes,  yes;  always  go  to  parties;  boy'll 
mind  wheelbarrow,"  said  Mr.  Tompkins  in  his  short, 
quick  way.  "  When  is  it  going  to  begin?  " 

"  Right  off,"  said  Mr.  Doty. 

"  What  do  you  do  first?  "  asked  Hiram. 

"  Set  the  table,"  said  Mr.  Doty. 

"  The  girls  must  set  the  table,"  said  Hiram. 


WHAT- MADE  MK.   TOMPKINS   LAUGH.          69 

' '  Where  is  it  ?  "  asked  cousin  Floy. 

"  There  it  is  :  don't  you  see  it?  "  Hiram  was  point 
ing  to  a  wagon-body  which  lay  there  without  its  wheels. 
He  turned  it  upside  down.  "There's  your  table," 
said  he. 

After  the  pieces  of  cocoanut  were  placed  on  the 
table,  Mr.  Doty  told  the  Jimmyjohns  to  ask  their  ma  if 
she  didn't  want  to  come  to  their  party. 

u  I  am  longing  to  come,"  cried  Mrs.  Plummer,  ap 
pearing  at  the  door.  "  I  have  thought  of  nothing  else 
ever  since  it  was  first  mentioned.  Would  baby  disturb 
the  party,  do  you  think?  " 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Hiram.    "  Pray  invite  Josephus." 

"  I  wish  some  of  you  would  be  kind  enough  to  bring 
him  out,"  said  Mrs.  Plumrner.  "He  is  fastened  in  his 
straw  chair." 

"  I  will,"  said  Hiram. 

Hiram  brought  out  Josephus,  then  a  rocking-chair, 
and  then  some  common  chairs  for  Mr.  Doty  and  Mr. 
Tompkins.  The  children  ran  in  for  crickets.  Snip 
capered  after  the  Jimmies  every  step  they  took,  and 
came  near  being  trodden  on. 

There  were  seventeen  sat  down  to  table, — twelve 
that  were  in  plain  sight,  and  five  that  could  not  be  seen 
very  plainly.  The  twelve  who  were  in  plain  sight  were 
Mr.  Doty,  Mr.  Tompkins,  Mrs.  Plummer,  Josephus, 
Hiram,  cousin  Floy,  Annetta,  Effie,  Clarence,  Jimmy, 
Johnn}r,  and  Snip.  The  five  who  could  not  be  seen 
very  plainly  were  the  cat  and  her  four  kittens.  These 
were  invited  on  Effie 's  account,  and  came  in  their  own 
private  box. 

Just  as  the  cocoanut  was  being  passed  round,  Mr. 


70  THE  JIMMYJOHNS.     - 

Plummer  appeared  from  the  orchard,  and  asked  what 
was  going  on. 

"  A  party !  "  shouted  the  children. 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Plurnmer,  "  I  must  say  that  it  is 
rather  strange  that  I  have  not  been  invited  ! ' ' 

"Won't  you  come?  Oh,  do  come!"  the  children 
called  out. 

"In  my  own  yard  too! — very  strange  indeed!" 
said  Mr.  Plummer. 

"  But  won't  you  come?  " 

"  I  haven't  had  any  invitation." 

"  Take  one  ;  do  come  !  "  they  shouted. 

Mr.  Plummer  laughed,  and  went  and  sat  down  on  a 
roller-cart  close  by  Josephus. 

"  Will  the  party  be  done  right  awa}^  after  supper?  " 
asked  Hiram  as  they  all  nibbled  cocoanut. 

"  Oh,  not  so  soon !  "  cried  Annetta. 

"  It  hasn't  lasted  five  minutes,"  said  Mrs.  Plummer. 

"  Play  charades  ;  do,  please  do  !  "  cried  Floy.  "  I 
went  to  a  real  party  last  night,  and  they  played  charades. 
One  charade  was  '  Mother  Goose.'  ' 

"  How  do  you  play  it?  "  asked  Annetta. 

"  Oh,  easy  enough !  Somebody  has  to  be  '  mother ; ' 
and  then  somebody  has  to  be  '  goose  ; '  and  then  some 
body  has  to  be  '  Mother  Goose/  and  say,  "  Sing  song 
a  sixpence,  pocketful  of  rye.'  ' 

"  I  speak  not  to  be  the  '  goose  ! '  "  cried  Hiram. 

"  Who'll  be  '  mother  '  ?  "  asked  cousin  Floy. 

"  You  be  c  mother,'  "  said  Annetta. 

"Well,  I'll  be  'mother, '"said  cousin  Floy.  "Who'll 
be  my  little  girl  ?  There  must  be  a  little  girl  to  keep 
coming  in,  and  saying  '  Mother,'  and  asking  me  for 
things." 


WHAT   MADE  MB.   TOMPKINS  LAUGH.          71 

"  I'll  be  little  girl,"  said  Hiram. 

"Hoo,  hoo!  he,  he!  you  don't  know  how!  you're 
too  tall !  "  shouted  the  children. 

' '  Oh,  yes  !  I  know  how.  Come,  Floy,  let's  get  ready. ' ' 
And  away  they  went  into  the  house. 

In  about  five  minutes  cousin  Floy  came  out,  dressed 
in  Mrs.  Plummer's  things,  — shawl,  bonnet,  and  skirt,  — • 
and  with  a  serious  face  took  her  seat  in  a  chair  which 
had  been  placed  upon  the  wagon.  Then  came  Hiram, 
with  Floy's  hat  on,  the  elastic  under  his  chin.  For  a 
sack  he  had  turned  his  coat,  which  was  lined  with  red, 
wrong  side  out ;  and  he  had  pinned  a  shawl  around  his 
waist  in  a  way  which  made  it  look  like  a  dress-skirt. 

Floy  told  him  he  must  keep  coming  in  to  ask  her 
something,  and  must  call  her  "mother"  every  time. 
He  did  just  as  she  had  told  him.  He  trotted  out  of 
the  house  and  back,  taking  little  short  steps,  asking  a 
question  each  time,  and  imitating  the  voice  of  a  small 
child. 

"Mother,  may  I  have  a  cent?"  "Mother,  may  I 
go  out  to  play?"  "Mother,  may  I  wear  my  new 
shoes  ?  "  "  Mother,  may  I  make  corn-balls  ?  "  "  Mother, 
may  I  have  a  doughnut  ?  ' ' 

At  each  question  the  "mother"  would  shake  her 
head  very  soberly,  and  say,  "  No,  my  daughter  ;  "  or, 
"  Not  at  present,  my  daughter." 

"Good!"  cried  Mr.  Tompkins, —  "very  good  for 
4  mother ' !  Now  who's  going  to  be  '  goose  '  ?  " 

"  I  will,"  said  Clarence. 

"  Come,  then,"  said  Floy.  "  If  cousin  Hiram  will 
help  me,  I'll  dress  you  up  for  '  goose  '  in  the  way  they 
dressed  up  their  ;  goose '  last  night." 


72  THE   JIMMYJOHNS. 

Hiram  and  Floy  took  Clarence  into  the  house,  and 
got  an  old  light-colored  calico  dress  of  Mrs.  Plummer's, 
and  held  it  bottom  up,  and  told  Clarence  to  step  in,  and 
put  his  legs  through  the  sleeves.  Next  they  gathered 
the  bottom  of  the  skirt  around  his  neck,  keeping  his 
arms  inside.  Then  they  tied  a  thin  pocket-handker 
chief  over  his  head,  covering  face  and  all.  Then  they 
fastened  a  tin  tunnel  to  the  front  side  of  his  head,  and 
called  that  the  "bill  of  the  goose;"  and  then  pinned 
on  two  feather  fans  for  wings,  and  hung  a  feather  duster 
on  behind  for  a  tail.  Floy  told  him  he  must  stoop  far 
over,  and  go  waddling  around,  pecking  with  his  bill 
like  a  goose. 

The  instant  the  "goose"  appeared,  all  the  people 
began  to  laugh :  and  when  they  saw  it  waddling  around 
in  the  grass,  pecking  with  its  bill  as  if  it  were  pecking 
at  little  bugs,  they  fairly  shouted;  some  crying  out, 
"  Oh,  what  a  goose  !  — oh,  what  a  goose  !  "  Josephus 
shouted  too,  and  made  his  feet  fly  and  his  hands  fly, 
and  patted  cakes  enough  for  his  supper.  Snip  barked, 
and  ran  this  way  and  that  way  ;  keeping  away  from  the 
"goose,"  though. 

The  next  thing  was  to  put  the  two  words  together, 
and  act  l.1  Mother  Goose." 

"Mr.  Tompkins,"  said  Mr.  Doty,  "why  don't  you 
be  'Mother  Goose-'?" 

"I  don't  believe  Mr.  Tompkins  could  keep  from 
laughing,"  said  Hiram. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  could!  I  could  keep  from  laughing," 
said  Mr.  Tompkins  ;  "  but  my  nose  is  too  short." 

"  That  Mother  Goose's  nose  last  night,"  said  Floy, 
"  had  wax  on  it  to  make  it  long." 


WHAT   MADE  MB.   TOMPKINS  LAUGH.         73 

"  Nice  way  that,"  said  Hiram.  "  But,  Mr.  Tomp- 
kins,  are  you  sure  you  can  keep  from  laughing?  " 

Hiram  had  a  reason  for  asking  this  question. 

"  Oh,  yes  !  perfectly,  perfectly  sure,"  said  Mr.  Tomp- 
kins.  "  Make  me  laugh,  I'll  pay  forfeit." 

Mr.  Tompkins  was  so  eager  to  show  that  he  could 
keep  from  laughing,  that  he  agreed  to  pay  any  kind  of 
forfeit,  and  to  dress  in  an}'  kind  of  way. 

Hiram  took  him  into  the  house,  and  dressed  him. 
First  he  lengthened  out  his  nose  with  a  piece  of  warm 
wax ;  then  he  tied  a  handkerchief  over  his  head  for  a 
cap  (for  a  cap-border  he  pinned  on  some  strips  of 
newspaper)  ;  and  then  he  put  a  large  round  cape  over 
his  shoulders.  A  black  shawl  served  for  a  skirt.  When 
all  this  was  done,  he  told  Mr.  Tompkins  that  he  might 
sit  down  in  the  house  and  wait  a  few  moments.  He 
had  a  reason  for  telling  him  that. 

Cousin  Flo}',  a  little  while  before,  when  the  "  goose  " 
was  being  dressed,  told  Hiram  of  a  way  by  which  one 
of  the  actors  was  made  to  laugh  at  the  "real  party" 
she  went  to  ;  and  Hiram  thought  it  would  be  fun  to  try 
it  with  Mr.  Tompkins. 

So,  while  Mr.  Tompkins  was  sitting  down  to  wait  a 
few  moments,  they  went  into  another  room,  and  got  a 
pillow,  and  dressed  it  up  to  look  like  an  old  woman. 
First  they  tied  a  string  around  the  pillow,  near  one 
end,  to  make  a  head.  On  one  side  of  this  head  they 
marked  eyes,  nose,  and  mouth  with  a  piece  of  charcoal. 
Then  they  took  a  waterproof,  stuffed  out  the  sleeves  for 
arms,  and  put  that  on  the  pillow-woman.  Then  they 
went  up  into  grandma  Plummer's  roomt  and  borrowed 
an  old  cap,  black  bonnet,  and  spectacles,  and  put 
those  on. 


74  THE  JIMMY  JOHNS. 

When  the  pillow-woman  was  ready,  Floy  ran  and 
told  them  all  to  be  sure  and  not  laugh  loudly  when  they 
saw  what  was  coming,  for  fear  Mr.  Tompkins  might 
hear  them.  The  pillow-woman  was  then  taken  out  by 
Hiram,  and  seated  in  a  chair  among  the  other  people. 
He  introduced  her  to  them  as  "Mrs.  Mulligachunk." 
He  pinned  together  the  wrists  of  her  stuffed  arms,  and 
let  them  drop  in  her  lap,  and  placed  a  bundle  on  them 
to  cover  the  place  where  there  should  have  been  hands. 
The  bundle  was  tied  up  in  a  handkerchief.  Then  he 
placed  a  pair  of  shoes  just  where  they  would  seem  to 
be  her  feet,  stood  an  umbrella  by  her  side,  and  tipped 
her  head  back  just  a  little ;  so  that,  when  Mr.  Tomp 
kins  should  be  standing  on  the  wagon,  she  would  appear 
to  be  looking  him  in  the  face. 

"Come,  Mother  Goose !"  cried  Hiram;  and  Mr. 
TOmpkins,  in  his  funny  rig,  walked  from  the  house, 
took  his  stand  upon  the  wagon,  and  with  a  very  sober 
face  began :  — 

"Sing  a  song  a  sixpence,  pocketful  of  rye; 
Four  and  twenty  blackbirds  baked  into  a  pie : 
When  the  pie  was  opened,  the  birds  be  "  — 

At  that  moment  his  eye  fell  upon  "  Mrs.  Mulliga- 
chunk/7  She  sat  there  in  a  row  with  the  others,  and 
seemed  to  be  listening  just  the  same  as  anybody.  The 
people,  who  were  all  on  the  watch,  burst  out  laughing  ; 
and  Mr.  Tompkins  had  to  laugh  too,  in  spite  of  all  he 
could  do. 

Hiranr  sprang  up.  "  Mother  Goose ,  * '  cried  he ,  "  let 
me  introduce  you  to  Mrs.  Mulligachunk." 

Mother  Goose  replied  by  taking  off  her  things,  and 
throwing  them  at  Mrs.  Mulligachunk. 


WHAT  MADE  ME.   TOMPKINS  LAUGH.         75 

Then  Hiram  asked  the  Jimmies  if  they  didn't  want 
to  take  Mrs.  Mulligachunk  to  ride. 

"  Yes,  yes  !  yes,  yes  !  "  they  shouted. 

Hiram  then  put  Mrs.  Mulligachunk  into  the  roller- 
cart,  —  bundle,  umbrella,  and  all.  The  Jimmies  caught 
hold  of  the  handle,  and  away  they  ran  like  two  smart 
little  ponies,  Snip  barking  behind  with  all  his  might. 

Mr.  Tompkins  was  about  to  follow ;  when  Annetta 
and  cousin  Floy  suddenly  ^called  out,  "Forfeit,  forfeit! 
You'll  have  to  be  judged  !  " 

Mr.  Tompkins  gave  his  penknife  for  a  forfeit. 

"  Then  judge  me  quick  !  "  said  he  ;  "  for  I  must  be 
going." 

"  To  dance  a  jig !  "  cried  Hiram.       • 

1 '  To  tell  a  story  !  ' '  cried  cousin  Floy. 

"  Yes,  yes  !  that's  it !  "  cried  Annetta. 

"  Oh,  no !  no,  no  !  take  too  long,"  said  Mr.  Tomp 
kins. 

But  Mr.  Plummer  and  Mrs.  Plummer,  and  all  the 
rest,  kept  shouting,  "  Story,  story,  story  !  " 

"Well,  well,  story  'tis,"  said  Mr.  Tompkins ;  "a 
email  one,  though." 

And  then  Mr.  Tompkins  began  to  tell  a  small  story 
about  a  hen  named  Teedla  Toodlum,  who  lived  in  a  far 
away  countr}T,  —  the  name  of  which  country  was  so 
strange,  that  not  one  of  the  people  could  remember  it 
five  minutes  afterward.  In  the  next  chapter  you  "shall 
have  Mr.  Tompkins' s  story. 


76  THE  JIMMYJOHNS. 

CHAPTER  IX. 

MR.    TOMPKINS 'S    SMALL   STORI". 

"  TT  must  be  a  small  one,"  said  Mr.  Tompkins. 

JL  "Oh,  yes !  we've  agreed  to  that,"  said  Mr. 
Plummer. 

Mr.  Tompkins  then  asked  if  they  were  willing  it 
should  be  merely  a  hen-story. 

"  We'll  take  the  vote  on  that,"  cried  Hiram.  Then, 
turning  to  the  company,  he  said,  — 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  it  is  known  to  you  that  our 
friend  Mr.  Tompkins  has  paid  his  forfeit,  and  that  he 
has  been  judged  to  redeem  it  by  telling  a  story.  It  was 
no  more  than  right  for  him  to  pay  a  forfeit ;  for  he 
laughed  at  a  quiet  old  lady  who  never  did  him  any 
harm,  and  treated  her  in  an  unkind  manner.  Mr. 
Tompkins  now  wishes  to  know  if  his  small  story  may 
be  merely  a  hen-story.  All  who  are  willing  that  Mr. 
Tompkins's  small  story  shall  be  merely  a  hen-story 
please  tor  say  '  Ay.'  ' 

"  Ay,  ay,  ay,  ay!"  was  shouted  many  times  by 
young  and  old ;  and,  what  with  the  shouting  and  the 
laughing  and  the  hand-clapping,  there  was  such  a  racket 
as  set  Snip  a-barking  at  the  top  of  his  voice.  Jose- 
phus  crowed,  and  made  his  feet  fly,  and  patted  cakes, 
and  tossed  them  up  so  hfgh,  that  he  nearly  threw  himself 
over  backward.  The  cat  hopped  out  of  her  private  box, 
her  tail  standing  straight  in  the  air  :  and  it  is  more  than 
likely  that  the  kittens'  eyes  came  open  with  wonder ; 


77 


which  would  have  been  a  very  great  wonder  indeed, 
seeing  that  the  nine  da}Ts  were  not  much  more  than 
half  over. 

Mr.  Tompkins  then  told  the  following  short  and  sim 
ple  stor}',  which  was  written  down  upon  the  spot  by  the 
only  person  present  who  had  a  lead-pencil :  — 

There  was  once  a  hen  who  talked  about  another  hen 
in  a  not  very  good  way,  and  in  a  not  at  all  friendly 
way.  The  hen  she  talked  about  was  named  Phe-endy 
Alome.  Her  own  name  was  Teedla  Toodlum.  They 
both  belonged  to  a  flock  of  white  hens  which  lived  in 
the  far-away  country  of  Chickskumeatyourkornio. 

Now,  the  one  that  was  named  Teedla  Toodlum  went 
around  among  the  other  hens,  making  fun  of  Phe-endy 
Alome  on  account  of  her  having  a  speckled  feather  in 
her  wing.  She  told  them  not  to  go  with  Phe-endy 
Alome,  or  scratch  up  worms  with  her,  or  any  thing,  be 
cause  Phe-endy  had  that  speckled  feather  in  her  wing. 

One  of  the  hens  that  Teedla  Toodlum  talked  to  in 
this  way  was  deaf,  and  therefore  could  not  hear  very 
well.  She  had  become  deaf  in  consequence  of  not 
minding  her  mother.  It  happened  in  this  way  :  A  tall 
Shanghai  roost-cock  crowed  close  to  her  car  when  she 
was  quite  small ;  when,  in  fact,  she  was  just  hatched 
out  of  her  shell.  She  had  a  number  of  brothers  and 
sisters  who  came  out  at  almost  the  same  time.  The 
Shanghai  stood  very  near,  and  in  such  a  way  that  his 
throat  came  close  to  the  nest,  and  he  crowed  there. 
The  chicks  wanted  to  put  their  heads  out  from  under 
their  mother,  and  see  who  was  making  such  a  noise. 
Their  mother  said,  — 


78  THE   JIMMYJOHNS. 

4 'No,  no,  no!  Keep  under!  You  might  be  made 
deaf:  I've  heard  of  such  a  thing  happening." 

But  one  chick  did  put  her  head  out,  and  close  to  the 
Shanghai's  wide-open  throat  too,  and  when  he  was 
crowing  terribly. 

Then  her  mother  said,  — 

1 '  Now  I  shall  punish  you :  I  shall  prick  you  with  my 
pin-feathers." 

And  the  chick  was  pricked,  and  she  became  deaf  be 
sides  ;  so  that,  when  she  grew  up,  she  hardly  could 
hear  herself  cackle.  And  this  was  the  reason  she  could 
not  understand  very  well  when  the  hen  named  Tecdla 
Toodlum  was  telling  the  others  that  the  hen  named 
Phe-endy  Alome  had  a  Speckled  feather  in  her  wing. 

One  day,  the  hen  named  Teedla  Toodlum  scratched 
a  hole  in  the  sand  beneath  a  bramble-bush,  and  sat 
down  there,  where  it  was  cool ;  and,  while  she  was 
sitting  there,  a  cow  came  along  at  the  other  side  of  the 
bramble-bush,  with  a  load  of  "  passengers  "  on  her 
back.  The  cows  in  the  country  of  Chickskumeatyour- 
kornio  permit  the  hens  to  ride  on  their  backs ;  and, 
when  a  great  many  are  on,  they  step  carefully,  so  as 
not  to  shake  them  off.  In  frosty  weather  they  allow 
them  to  get  up  there  to  warm  their  feet.  Sometimes 
hens  who  have  cold  feet  fly  up  and  push  off  the  others 
who  have  been  there  long  enough. 
„  The  cow  passed  along  at  the  other  side  of  the  bush, 
and  by  slipping  one  foot  into  a  deep  hole  which  was 
hidden  with  grass,  and  therefore  could  not  be  seen, 
upset  the  whole  load  of  passengers.  She  then  walked 
on ;  but  the  passengers  staid  there,  and  had  a  little 
talk  together, — after  their  own  fashion,  of  course. 


MH.   TOMPKINS'S   SMALL   STORY.  79 

The  deaf  one  happened  to  be  among  them  ;  and,  seeing 
that  the  others  were  having  great  sport,  she  wanted  to 
know  what  it  was  all  about.  Upon  this  the  others  — 
those  of  them  who  could  stop  laughing  —  raised  their 
voices  ;  and  all  began  at  once  to  tiy  to  make  her  under 
stand.  And  this  is  what  they  said  :  — 

"Think  of  that  goose  of  a  hen,  Teedla  Toodlum, 
telling  us  not  to  go  with  Phe-endy  Alome  because  Phe- 
endy  Alome  has  a  speckled  feather  in  her  wing,  when 
at  the  same  time  Teedla  Toodlurn  has  tivo  speckled 
feathers  in  her  own  wing,  but  doesn't  knoto  it  I 

Teedla  Toodlum  was  listening,  and  heard  rather  more 
than  was  pleasant  to  hear.  She  looked  through  the 
bramble-bush,  and  saw  them.  Some  had  their  heads 
thrown  back,  laughing  ;  some  were  holding  on  to  their 
sides,  each  with  one  claw ;  and  some  were  stretching 
their  necks  forward,  trying  to  make  the  deaf  one  un 
derstand,  while  the  deaf  one  held  her  claw  to  her  ear 
in  order  to  hear  the  better. 

"Ah,  I  feel  ashamed!  "  said  Teedla  Toodlum  to 
herself.  "  I  see  now  that  one  should  never  speak  of 
the  speckled  feathers  one  sees  in  others,  since  one  can 
never  be  sure  that  one  has  not  speckled  feathers  one's 
self." 

"  Why,  that's  the  way  our  cow  does!  "  cried  the 
Jimnryjohns  as  soon  as  Mr.  Tompkins  had  finished. 

"What!  talks  about  speckled  feathers?"  asked 
cousin  Floy. 

"  No  :  lets  hens  stay  on  her  back." 

"  Her  parents,  or  grandparents,  or  great-grand 
parents,  then,"  said  Mr.  Tompkins,  "  probably  came 
from  Chickskumeatyourkornio." 


FLOWERS  WAKING  UP. 


u  TT  must  be  that  spring  has 
JL    come,"  said    the   Pansy, 
"  or  I  should  never  feel  so  un 
easy,  and   so  very  wide-awake. 
I've  a  great  mind   to   put  my 
head  up  out  of  the  ground,  and 
see.      Hark !      Yes,  there    are 
the  birds.     They  are  calling  to 
the    flowers.      '  Awake  !  '    they 
say,  i  awake,  and  come  forth ! 
There's  nothing  to  be  afraid  of 
now ;  for  Old  Winter  has  gone 
away.     He  can't  hurt  you  any 
more.      Violet!    Snowdrop! 
Pansy  !     Don't  stay  down  there 
any     longer. 
We      little 
birds       are 
lonesome 
without  you.' 
'Yes,    birds, 
we   are  com 
ing,  and  that  right  soon  ;  for  it  is  quite  time  the  spring 
so 


FLOWERS   WAKING   UP.  81 

work  was  a-doing ;  and  as  old  Goody  Grass  says,  if 
some  of  us  do  not  spring  up,  there  will  be  no  spring 
at  all. 

"Ah,  how  charming  to  breathe  fresh  air,  and  to  be 
in  the  light!  Why,  I  feel  all  alive,  all  astir!  This 
warm  sunshine  thrills  me  through  and  through.  'Twas 
very  dismal  down  there  ;  but  how  light  and  cheerful  it 
is  up  above !  And  here  are  all  our  old  neighbors ; 
come  to  spend  the  summer,  I  hope.  Dear  Violet, 
I'm  so  glad  to  see  you  !  When  did  }'ou  come  up?  " 

"  Only  just  this  moment,  Pansy.  When  the  birds 
began  to  call,  I  felt  that  we  ought  to  start  immediately. 
It  is  really  very  pleasant  to  be  awakened  by  music ; 
pleasant,  too,  to  meet  old  friends  once  more.  And, 
oh,  how  good  it  is  to  be  alive  !  I  have  just  your  feel 
ings,  and  cannot  keep  mj'self  quiet.  What  is  the 
charm  that  works  upon  us  so  ?  " 

"  I  believe,"  said  Pansy,  "  that  the  great  shining 
sun  up  there  has  something  to  do  with  it,  in  a  way  we 
don't  understand.  — Ah  !  Neighbor  Snowdrop,  how  do 
you  do?  No  doubt,  being  so  early  a  riser,  you  were 
one  of  the  very  first  upon  the  ground." 

"Why,  yes,"  said  Snowdrop,  "  I  do  make  a  prac 
tice  of  coming  early.  It  seems  as  if  the  birds  should 
have  some  one  to  welcome  them  back :  it  must  be 
hard  work  singing  to  bare  ground,  after  what  they've 
been  used  to  at  the  South.  And,  besides,  my  dreams 
were  so  unpleasant,  that  I  was  really  glad  to  shake 
them  off.  Probably  I  slept  too  near  the  surface  ;  for 
the  terrible  uproar  above  ground  disturbed  me,  even  in 
my  sleep.  I  dreamed  that  a  mighty  giant  was  striding 
about,  shaking  the  world  to  pieces  ;  that  he  stamped 


82  FLOW  BBS   WAKING   UP. 

upon  the  flowers ;  and  was  so  cruel  to  the  trees  as  to 
make  them  groan  dreadfully.  Once  I  half  awaked, 
and  shuddered,  and  said  to  myself,  '  Oh !  what  can 
be  going  on  overhead  ?  '  then  fell  asleep  again,  and 
dreamed  that  the  whole  beautiful  earth  was  covered 
with  something  white  and  cold,  and  that  a  voice  said, 
4  Go  up  through  the  snow  !  '  to  which  I  answered,  '  Oh  ! 
I'm  afraid  to  go  alone/ 

"  When  I  awoke,  the  voice  seemed  still  saying,  '  Go 
up  ! '  Then  I  remembered  the  birds,  and  came,  but  came 
trembling  ;  for  the  cold  white  snow  was  truly  here,  and 
I  feared  that  dreadful  giant  might  be  real  also.  My 
good  friends,  did  you  have  no  bad  dreams?  and  were 
you  not  disturbed  by  the  tumult  ?  ' ' 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Pansy.  "  When  our  mother  told 
us  the  good  Summer  who  loved  us  had  gone,  and  that 
there  was  a  dreadful  old  Winter  coming,  who  would 
growl  and  pinch  and  bite,  and  that  we'd  better  keep 
our  heads  under  cover,  then  I  went  to  sleep,  and  slept 
soundly.  I  haven't  heard  any  thing  of  all  this  rowde- 
dow  you  say  has  been  going  on  overhead,  but,  on  the 
contrary,  have  had  very  charming  dreams.  I  dreamed 
of  being  in  a  place  where  the  sky  was  made  up  of  the 
most  beautiful  colors,  — purple,  yellow,  pale  gold,  and 
straw-color ;  and  there  were  purple  and  yellow  rain 
bows  reaching  down  from  the  sky  to  me.  At  last  I 
awoke,  and  heard  the  birds  calling.  Wasn't  that 
pretty?  Now,  little  Violet,  what  did  you  dream?  " 

"  In  my  dreams,"  said  the  Violet,  "  the  sky  was  all 
over  blue,  —  a  deep,  beautiful  blue.  And  I  can't  tell 
you  how  it  was,  — the  dream  was  a  strange  one,  — but, 
while  it*  lasted,  this  blue  seemed  to  fall  upon  me,  —  to 


FLOWERS   WAKING   UP.  83 

fall  gently,  as  the  dew  falls  ;  and  with  the  blue  came  a 
delightful  perfume.  It  was  a  very  sweet  dream." 

"  Now  I  slept  here  quite  accidentally,"  said  a  3'oung 
Sunflower,  starting  up  ;  "but  I,  too,  had  my  dreams.  I 
dreamed  of  seeing  something  round  and  bright  and 
glorious  moving  across  the  sky,  —  something  which  I 
so  worshipped,  so  longed  to  be  like,  that,  wherever  it 
went,  I  never  failed  to  turn  towards  it ;  and,  in  return 
for  my  worship,  this  glorious  object  sent  me  down  floods 
of  its  golden  light." 

"  As  for  me,"  said  a  Damask  Rose-Bush,  "I  haven't 
been  to  bed  at  all,  but  have  slept  standing;  and  in 
my  dreams  the  sky  was  the  color  of  the  east  just  before 
sunrise,  and  eveiy  object  seemed  bathed  in  its  lovely 
light.  There  was  a  fragrance,  too,  in  the  air  about 
me,  and  whispers,  very  faint  whispers,  which  sounded 
like  this,  —  '  Love,  love,  love  ! '  and  there  were  little 
winged  boys  hovering  around." 

"  Now  I,"  said  the  Woodbine,  "  slept  leaning  against 
the  house,  and  my  dreams  were  chiefly  of  climbing. 
Nothing  would  satisfy  me  but  getting  higher.  And 
really  the  dream  seems  to  have  meant  something.  I 
have  strange  sensations  :  I  feel  active,  restless.  What 
has  got  into  me,  I  wonder.  It  must  be  the  sap.  Well, 
here  I  go  !  " 

The  other  dreams  seemed  to  have  meant  some 
thing  too :  for  the  Snowdrop  bore  a  flower  the  color 
of  snow,  —  a  pale,  trembling  blossom,  that  looked  as 
if  it  were  afraid  old  Winter  would  come  back,  and  have 
a  grab  at  it  }~et ;  and  the  Pans}^'s  flower  was  of  the 
wondrous  hues  she  dreamed  of, — purple,  yellow,  and 


84  FLOWERS    WAKING   UP. 

straw-color;  the  Violet's  was  blue,  and  shed  around 
it  a  delicious  perfume,  like  that  which  in  her  dream 
came  down  with  the  blue  from  the  heavens. 

The  Sunflower  grew  up  very  tall,  and  produced  a 
flower  which  always  turned  to  the  sun,  from  the  time 
of  his  rising  in  the  east  to  his  setting  in  the  west,  and 
thus  drew  into  itself  such  floods  of  golden  light,  that 
at  last  this  devoted  flower  came  to  resemble  somewhat 
the  sun  it  worshipped. 

The  buds  of  the  Damask  Rose  were  used  by  lovers 
when  they  wished  to  tell  their  love  in  the  most  beautiful 
wa}^ ;  and  no  doubt  they  and  those  who  received  them 
heard  whispers  in  the  air  like  those  the  Rose-Bush 
dreamed  of ;  and  if  they  did  not  see  the  little  winged 
boys,  —  why,  they  might  have  been  there,  for  all  that. 

As  for  the  Woodbine,  it  climbed  till  the  house-top 
was  reached,  and,  at  last  accounts,  was  still  creeping 
up  the  roof. 


THE  LITTLE  PULLWINGEE'S  DEEAI. 


"  "VTOIJ  must  know,  children,"  said  uncle  Joe,  "that  I 
JL  have  taken  great  pains  to  collect  dreams .  When 
ever  strange  ones  or  funny  ones  are  told,  me,  I  write 
them  down  in  this  '  dream-book.'  Some  of  them  would 
make  }*ou  laugh  till  the  tears  ran  out  of  your  eyes.  It 
is  really  curious  what  singular  things  do  come  to  us  in 
dreams,  —  such  wonders  !  such  jumbles  !  such  silliness 
es  !  and  yet  they  all  seem  right  enough  when  we  are 
dreaming  them. 

"Now,  there  was  little  Barnabas  Springer,  who 
dreamed  he  was  ploughing  with  an  ox  on  the  seashore, 
(of  all  places  in  the  world  to  be  ploughing  ! )  and  that 
the  ox  made  a  stifled,  i  rumble-grumble  '  sound  in  its 
throat  several  times.  He  dreamed,  that,  when  they 
reached  the  end  of  the  furrow,  he  saw  standing  there  a 
tall  lacly,  whose  head  —  now  mind  this  —  was  set  on  in 
such  a  wa}r  that  her  face  came  over  her  right  shoulder  ; 
and  that  this  tall  lady  spoke  to  him  in  a  loud  voice,  like  a 
person  scolding,  — 

' ' '  Barnabas  Springer !  that  ox  was  trying  to  tell 
you  to  say  •'  Gee  "  to  him,  so  that  he  might  "  gee," 
and  not  wet  his  feet.' 

85 


86  THE   LITTLE   PULLWINGER^S   DREAM. 

"  Now,  '  gee  '  means  '  turn  to  the  right,'  and  the  tall 
lady's  face  looked  over  her  right  shoulder  ;  and,  when 
Barnabas  woke  up,  he  was  lying  on  his  right  side,  with 
his  eyes,  nose,  and  mouth  in  the  pillows  :  all  of  which 
is  something  to  think  of. 

"  Then  there  was  my  pet  niece  Susie  dreamed  she 
was  her  own  kitten,  trying  to  catch  her  own  canary- 
bird,  and  that  she  understood  every  thing  the  bird  said 
in  his  flutterings,  and  just  what  his  feelings  were.  The 
poor  child  cried  herself  awake,  and  no  wonder. 

' '  But  among  the  strangest  of  the  strange  ones  in 
this  collection,"  said  uncle  Joe,  opening  his  dream- 
book,  "is  that  of  Jimmy,  my  little  nephew.  He 
dreamed  he  was  a  fly,  and  that  he  talked  with  a  sor 
rowful  butterfly  (which  died  in  the  dream) ,  and  with  a 
bluebird,  and  also  with  a  curious  being  who  wrore  five 
tall  black-and-white  plumes,  — one  in  his  hat,  and  two 
on  each  shoulder.  The  curious  being  also  wore  a  cow's 
horn,  standing  in  front  of  his  hat ;  for  which  reason  he 
was  called  the  '  Great  Head-Homer.' 

"He  had  ten  'helpers.'  These  helpers  had  each 
one  plume,  but  no  horn.  Their  plumes  stood  up 
straight,  in  the  middle  of  the  crowns  of  their  tall  hats. 
You  will  hear  about  them  presently;  for  I  have  the 
whole  dream  written  down  here,  just  as  Jimmy  told  it 
to  me,  dialogue-fashion. 

' '  It  happened  in  this  way :  One  summer  afternoon 
Jimmy  had  been  doing  something  naughty  (you  will 
find  out  what  it  was  by  and  by)  ;  and  his  mother,  after 
talking  with  him,  read  to  him  a  story  about  a  boy  who 
had  done  the  same  thing,  and  other  things  somewhat 
like  it.  She  also  told  some  true  stories  of  cruel  men 


THE  LITTLE   PULLWINGER'S   DREAM.  87 

whom  she  had  known,  and  read  several  short  pieces  of 
poetry  on  the  same  subject. 

"  Now  that  I  have  spoken  the  word  '  cruel/  I  may  as 
well  say  that  Jiminy  had  been  tormenting  insects  in 
ways  which  it  would  give  me  pain  to  tell,  and  give  you 
pain  to  hear,  and  that  the  men  of  whom  his  mother 
spoke  had  been  cruel  to  dumb  animals. 

"While  she  was  talking,  three  or  four  officers  in 
Uniform  passed  by.  I  mention  these  things  in  order 
that  you  may  the  better  account  for  Jimnw's  curious 
dream. 

"  Jimmy  fell  asleep  during  the  reading  of  the  verses, 
and  dreamed  of  being  in  a  strange  place,  where  he  saw 
close  beside  him  a  large  golden-spotted  butterfly.  He 
dreamed  that  it  was  a  moaning,  sighing,  sorrowing  but 
terfly,  and  —  what  seemed  more  strange  —  that  it  spoke 
to  him,  and  called  him  a  fly  ;  and,  stranger  yet,  that  he 
thought,  for  a  time,  he  was  a  fl}T,  though  he  felt  like 
himself  all  the  while.  Even  this,  however,  is  not  so 
strange  as  the  rest. 

' '  In  the  dream-dialogue  I  call  Jimmy  by  his  true 
name,  because,  as  he  said,  he  felt  like  himself.  You 
will  observe  that  the  sorrowful  butterfly  begins." 

Butterfly.  —  Speak  to  him  ;  ask  him  not  to  do  it,  dear, 
pretty  fly ! 

Jimmy.  —  You  are  not  talking  to  me,  butterfly,  are 
you? 

Butterfly.  —  Yes,  fly,  I  am  talking  to  you. 

Jimmy.  — But  I  am  not  a  fly,  butterfly  :  I  am  a  boy, 
a  Jimmy. 

Butterfly.  —  You  arc  a  fly,  and  this  will  prove  it.  Can 
a  boy  hear  butterfly-talk,  and  know  the  meaning  of  it? 


88  THE   LITTLE   PULLWTNGER'S    DREAM. 

Jimmy.  — But  if  I  were  a  fly,  butterfly,  I  could  fly. 

Butterfly.  —  So  you  can  fly,  fly.     Flap,  and  try  ! 

"  He  flapped  in  his  dream,  flew  up,  then  flew  clown." 

Jimmy.  — But  if  I  were  a  fly,  butterfly,  I  could  crawl 
on  the  wall. 

Butterfly.  —  You  can.  Flap  again,  fly;  fly  to  the 
wall,  and  crawl ! 

' '  He  flapped  in  his  dream,  flew  to  the  wall,  and 
crawled." 

Butterfly.  — Now  do  you  believe  }TOU  are  a  fly? 

Jimmy. — Yes,  butterfly:  I  am  a  fly,  and  I  am  a 
Jimmy  ;  I  am  a  Jimnry-fry. 

Butterfly.  —  Oh,  oh,  oh  !     Help,  he  comes  ! 

Jimmy.  —  Who  comes  ? 

Butterfly.  — The  giant.  Ask  him  not  to  do  it,  dear, 
good  fly  !  See,  see  the  sharp  rod  !  I  tremble,  I  quiver ! 

Jimmy.  — What  will  he  do  with  it,  butterfly? 

Butterfly. — He  will  run  it  through  my  body.  Oh, 
dear !  oh,  dear ! 

Jimmy.  — Why  don't  }TOU  fry  away? 

Butterfly. — The  window  is  shut.  Do,  do  speak  to 
him ! 

Jimmy.  — A  fly  cannot  talk  to  a  giant. 

Butterfly.  — But  you  can  buzz  to  him.  A  poor  but 
terfly  cannot  even  buzz.  See,  he  comes  near  ! 

Jimmy.  — That  is  not  a  giant :  that  is  only  a  boy. 

Butterfly. — Oh,  it  is  a  giant!  Won't  you,  tvon't 
you,  buzz  to  him? 

Jimmy.  — What  shall  I  buzz  to  him? 

Butterfly.  — Buzz  that  I  want  to  live  ;  that  I  long  to 
live. 

Jimmy.  — What  shall  I  buzz  that  you  want  to  live  for? 


THE   LITTLE   PULLWINGER'S   DREAM.  89 

Butterfly.  —  To  rock  in  the  lily-bells. 

Jimmy.  — What  else? 

Butterfly.  —  To  float  up  and  down,  up  and  down,  all 
the  summer-day. 

Jimmy.  —  What  else  ? 

Butterjly.  — For  the  honey  of  the  flowers. 

Jimmy. — What  else? 

Butterfly.  —  And  for  their  fragrance.  Flower  fra 
grance  is  the  breath  of  life  to  a  butterfly.  Buzz  ah1  this 
to  him.  Quick  !  Ah,  too  late,  too  late  !  Oh,  oh,  oh  ! 

Jimmy.  — Will  it  take  a  great  while  to  die? 

Butterjly.  —  A  very  great  while.  (Gasps  for  breath.) 
Oh,  oh,  dear  !  Cruel,  cruel,  cruel  giant ! 

"The  Jimnv^fly  flies  up  to  the  'giant's'  ear,  and 
tries  to  buzz  '  Cruel,  cruel,  cruel ! ' 

' '  A  great  hand  strikes  him  off.  He  gets  lost  in  the 
air  ;  and  when,  after  a  long  time,  he  finds  his  way  back, , 
the  golden-spotted  butterfly  is  almost  dead.  It  takes 
no  notice  of  any  thing  around,  but  murmurs,  faintly 
and  more  faintly,  of  '  clover,  bees,  honey,  perfume, 
roses,  mossy  banks,  lily-bells,  dewdrops,  humming 
birds,'  and  so  passes  away  in  a  pleasant  butterfly 
vision. 

"The  Jimmy-fly  flies  up  again,  and  buzzes  in  the 
giant's  ear,  as  well  as  he  can,  '  Cruel,  cruel,  cruel ! ' 

"  The  window  is  opened,  and  he  is  driven  out.  He 
flies  to  a  tree  near  by,  where  sits  a  bluebird.  The  bird 
appears  frightened,  and -utters  cries  of  distress." 

Jimmy.  — Bluebird,  what  troubles  you  so? 

Bluebird. — There's  a  gun  below.  It  will  kill  me! 
Oh,  if  I  could  only  live  ! 

Jimmy.  —  It  is  strange.      The  butterfly  wished  the 


90          THE  LITTLE  PULLWINGER'S   DREAM. 

very  same  thing.  Now,  what  do  you  want  to  live  for, 
bluebird  ? 

Bluebird.  —  Why,  to  sing  with  the  other  birds,  and 
to  swing  on  the  boughs ;  to  take  care  of  my  little 
birdies,  and  to  spread  my  wings,  and  fly  away  and 
away  over  the  treetops  ;  also  to  go  South  with  the 
summer.  Oh,  but  we  birds  have  rare  sport  then! 
Have  you  heard  of  the  sunny  South  ?  Do  you  know 
that  we  ^o  where  the  orange-trees  bloom?  We  find  no 
frost  there,  but  sunshine  always,  and  flowers,  and"  a 
mild  air.  And  then  the  fun  of  going  all  together  !  We 
sing,  we  fly  races  in  the  sky,  we  follow  the  leader.  Ah ! 
a  bird's  life  is  a  happy  life,  and  — 

"  A  gun  has  been  fired. 

"The  Jimmy-fly  flies  down,  and  finds  the  bird  on 
the  ground,  gasping  for  breath.  Its  bright  eyes  are 
closed.  Its  head  falls  on  its  breast.  One  little  flut 
ter  of  the  wings, — dead!  The  bluebird  will  never 
sing  again,  nor  swing  on  the  boughs,  nor  fly  away 
and  away  over  the  treetops,  nor  go  South  with  the 
summer. 

' '  And  here  enters  into  the  dream  the  curious  being 
spoken  of  just  now,  namely,  the  '  Great  Head-Horner,' 
or  captain,  with  his  five  tall  l^lack-and- white  plumes, 

—  one  in  his  hat,  and  two  on  each  shoulder.     Behind 
him,  in  single  file,  all  keeping   step,  march  his  ten 
helpers." 

Captain  (in  a  loud  voice) .  — Halt !     Here  is  the  boy. 

—  Boy,  step  this  way ! 

Jimmy.  —  I  am  not  —  a  boy.     I  am  —  a  —  a  —  fly. 
Captain. — Ha,   ha!     He   says   he  is  a  fly.      Ha, 
ha !     Pass  it  along. 


THE   LITTLE   PULLWINGETl's   DKEAM.          91 

"  It  passes  along  the  line,  each  helper  saying  to  the 
next,  — 

"  «  Ha,  ha !  He  says  he  is  a  fly.  Ha,  ha !  Pass  it 
along.'  " 

Captain.  —  If  he  is  a  fly,  why  doesn't  he  fly? 

"  All  repeat  this,  one  after  the  other,  '  If  he  is  a  fly, 
why  doesn't  he  fly? '  till  the  noise  of  so  many  voices 
sounds  like  the  bumbling  of  hoarse  bumble-bees. 

"  Jimmy  flaps  his  arms,  but  cannot  rise. 

"  A  laugh  passes  along  the  line." 

Captain.  —  Which  are  you  now,  —  fly,  or  boy? 

Jimmy.  — I  think  —  I  am  —  a  boy. 

Captain.  —  He  thinks  he  is  a  boy  :  we  think  he  is  a 
pullwinger-boy.  Wheel  about,  my  helpers. — Boy, 
these  are  my  first  company  of  helpers.  —  Wheel  about, 
my  helpers  ;  form  a  hollow  square  around  the  boy ; 
take  him  to  the  great  "  Bondenquol ;  "  let  him  see  what 
what  is  being  done  there  ! 

"  Jimmy  is  now  taken  to  the  great  'Bondenquol.'  ' 

Captain.  —  First  company  of  helpers,  begin  your 
work :  bring  in  the  abusers  of  dumb  animals.  (The 
ten  helpers  march  out.) 

Captain.  —  Helper  No.  1,  enter  ! 

"  Enter  helper  No.  1,  driving  before  him  a  red- 
faced  man  who  is  harnessed  to  a  wagon  in  which  is  a 
load  too  heavy  for  him  to  draw.  Wagon  moves  slowly : 
man  pulls  with  all  his  might.  Helper  No.  1  strikes  him 
with  a  whip :  man  cries  out,  tries  to  move  faster,  but 
cannot.  Another  blow  :  he  groans,  t  quivers,  bends 
himself  nearly  double. 

1 '  Meantime  other  helpers  have  come  in  at  other 
doors,  each  driving  a  man  who  is  trying  to  draw  a 


92          THE   LITTLE   PULLWINGElfS   DKEAM. 

load  heavy  be}rond  his  strength.  The  helpers  use 
their  whips.  The  men  suffer  pain  :  some  of  them  are 
lame  ;  some  blind  ;  some  are  half  starved,  and  so  weak 
that  their  joints  tremble.  The  great  '  Bondenquol ' 
resounds  with  shrieks  and  groans." 

Jimmy  (to  the  captain) .  —  What  are  they  hurting 
those  men  for  ? 

Captain.  —  To  let  them  know  how  whip-blows  feel. 
Those  are  the  cruel :  they  abuse  dumb  animals.  Do 
you  know,  that,  were  horses  not  dumb,  whoever  passes 
along  the  street  would  hear  shrieks  and  groans  worse 
than  those  you  are  now  hearing  ?  But  come.  You  are 
waited  for.  — Bo}T-punishers,  roll  the  wall. 

"  The  heavy  wall  moves  along  on  rollers.  The  noise 
of  this,  together  with  fright  at  the  prospect  of  being  pun 
ished,  woke  Jimmy  from  his  sleep.  A  wagon  loaded 
heavily  with  coal  was  passing  the  house.  It  was  this 
which  waked  him.  It  came  to  a  steep  place  in  the  road. 
The  horses  could  scarcely  move.  The  driver  swore  at 
them.  He  took  his  whip,  and  laid  on  the  blows,  —  ter 
ribly  hard  blows ! 

"Jimmy  ran  out. 

"  '  Oh,  don't,  Mr.  Driver  ! '  he  cried.  '  Please  stop 
whipping  the  poor  horses !  You  don't  know  how  it 
hurts ! ' 

' '  The  driver  could  hardly  tell  what  to  make  of  it  to 
be  spoken  to  in  that  way,  and  by  a  boy. 

"  '  And  do  you  know?  '  he  asked. 

"  '  Yes,  yes  ! '  cried  Jimmy.     '  I  dreamed  all  about  it.' 

"  The  driver  seemed  more  puzzled  than  ever.  He 
stood  still,  looked  down  at  Jimmy  ;  and  at  last  said  he,  — 

"  '  Well,  to  please  you,  I'll  stop." 


LJ 


HOW  THE  BAEN  CAME  PEOM  JOKULLO. 

TOLD   BY   THE    FAMILY   STORY-TELLER. 


IT  was  not  a  new  story ;  indeed,  it  was  hardly  a  story 
at  all :  but  the  children  liked  the  family  story-teller's 
way  of  telling  it  and  of  acting  it  out.  The  family  story 
teller  made  a  big  matter  of  that  barn-moving.  He  put 
in  words  enough  to  describe  an  earthquake,  or  a  AVest- 
India  hurricane,  or  a  volcano  pouring  out  red-hot  melted 
lava,  or  a  steamboat  bursting  her  boiler  and  blowing 
herself  up.  He  also  wanted  plenty  of  room  in  which 
to  fling  Jiis  arms  about,  and  shake  his  fists,  and  make 
other  kinds  of  motions,  so  as  to  act  out  what  was  done, 
and  especially  what  the  oxen-drivers  did. 

"Oh,  yes!  "the  family  story-teller  said,  taking  a 
leap  into  the  middle  of  the  floor:  "I'll  tell  how  the 
barn  came  from  Jorullo.  All  keep  quiet.  The  story 
is  going  to  begin  now.  One  morning  the  barrel-man  — 
a  collector  of  barrels  —  went  forth  from  his  house  by  the 
back-door ;  and  there  he  stood  with  folded  arms  (like 
this),  looking  at  all  his  carts,  wheelbarrows,  barrels, 
haystacks,  garden-tools,  and  many  other  things.  And 
he  said,  '  Behold,  I  have  carts,  wheelbarrows,  bar 
rels,  haystacks,  garden-tools,  and  many  other  things, 
but  have  no  roof  whereunder  to  shelter  them/  And  he 

95 


96       HOW   THE   BARN    CAME   FROM   JORULLO. 

said,  '  Behold,  in  Jorullo  there  stands  a  barn,  —  a  brown 
barn,  a  right  goodly  barn.  This  barn  will  I  buy.  And 
I  will  get  oxen  (horned  oxen  with  their  drivers)  and 
horses,  and  moving-men  with  their  stout  wheels, 
and  timbers,  and  great  iron  chains  ;  and  the  timbers 
shall  be  raised  upon  the  wheels,  and  the  barn  shall  be 
raised  upon  the  timbers,  and  the  oxen  shall  draw,  and 
the  wheels  shall  roll,  and  the  barn  shall  come  from 
Jorullo ;  and  in  that  will  I  shelter  my  carts,  barrels, 
wheelbarrows,  haystacks,  garden-tools,  and  many  other 
things.' 

' '  And  he  sent  round  about  into  all  the  country  ;  and 
there  came  twenty  oxen,  and  horses  besides,  with  their 
drivers,  from  South  Stromriffe  and  Smithersville  and 
Mt.  Lob  and  Trilerbite  Four  Corners  ;  and  the  Paxham- 
borough  moving-men  came  with  their  stout  wheels,  and 
their  timbers,  and  their  great  iron  chains  ;  and  the 
timbers  were  raised  upon  the  wheels,  and  the  barn  was 
raised  upon  the  timbers.  Then  the  drivers  began  to 
shout,  and  nourish  their  whips  (like  this)  :  '  Get  up 
there  I '  '  Gee!1  '  Haw ! '  '  Come  along !  '  c  Hi,  hi, 
hi  I '  '  What  're  ye  'bout  ?  '  The  horses  and  oxen  began 
to  draw  with  mighty  strength  ;  the  wheels  began  to  roll ; 
and  the  barn  began  to  move  from  Jorullo. 

"  And  first  they  came  to  a  telegraph-wire,  and  there 
they  stopped.  '  Take  down  that  telegraph-wire !  ' 
shouted  the  head  moving-man,  '  and  let  it  stay  down 
till  the  barn  passes  by.'  Then  out  came  the  ladders, 
and  up  climbed  the  men,  and  down  came  the  telegraph- 
wire." 

"  And  out  jumped  a  cat! "  cried  one  of  the  little 
boys. 


THE  BARREL-MAN  CUTS  THE  BRANCHES,  AND  THE  OWNEB 
COMPLAINS. 

97 


HOW   THE  BAKN  CAME  FKOM  JOBULLO.       99 

"  Yes,  out  jumped  a  cat  from  the  barn-window,  with 
a  kitten  in  her  mouth.  She  thought  'twas  time  to  move 
into  some  other  building.  She  went  back  to  Jorullo 
and  left  her  kitten,  and  came  back  and  jumped  in  at 
the  same  window  just  as  they  were  going  to  start  again. 
4  Ready !  '  cried  the  head  moving-man.  Then  the 
drivers  began  to  shout,  and  nourish  their  whips  (like 
this)  :  '  Come  along  here ! '  '  Haw  !  '  '  Whoa  !'  '  Go 
on!'  '  Gee  !  '  '  Get  up  there  ! '  '  What  ye  'bout  there  ? ' 
The  horses  and  oxen  began  to  draw  with  mighty 
strength ;  the  wheels  began  to  roll ;  and  the  barn 
moved  on. 

"  And  next  they  came  to  a  railroad-crossing,  and 
there  they  stopped.  Across  the  way  was  a  signboard  ; 
and  on  the  signboard  were  capital  letters,  '  LOOK 
OUT  FOR  THE  ENGINE  WHEN  THE  BELL 
RINGS.'  <  Take  down  that  signboard!  '  shouted  the 
head  moving-man,  '  and  let  it  stay  down  while  the  barn 
passes  by.'  Then  out  came  the  ladders,  and  up 
climbed  the  men,  and  down  came  the  signboard." 

"  And  out  jumped  the  cat  again!  "  cried  the  same 
little  boy. 

"  To  be  sure,  out  jumped  the  cat  again,  with  another 
kitten  in  her  mouth,  and  ran.  She  had  farther  to  go 
this  time  ;  and,  before  she  got  back,  the  head  moving- 
man  called  out,  '  Ready  ! '  Then  the  drivers  began  to 
shout,  and  nourish  their  whips  (like  this)  :  '  Move  along 
now  !  '  *  What  are  ye  doin'  there  I '  '  Hi,  hi  I '  '  Get 
up!'  lGoon!'  'Haw!'  lHaw!'  '  Keep  a-movin' ! ' 
The  horses  and  oxen  began  to  draw  with  mighty 
strength ;  the  wheels  began  to  roll ;  and  the  barn 
moved  on. 


tOO      HOW   THE  BARN  CAME  FROM   JORULLO. 

11  And  next  they  came  to  a  great  oak-tree,  whose 
limbs  overhung  the  road,  and  there  they  stopped. 
'  Chop  off  a  few  of  those  limbs ! '  shouted  the  head 
moving-man.  Then  out  came  the  ladders,  and  up  went 
the  men  with  their  hatchets  ;  and  crack,  snap !  went  the 
limbs.  Soon  ran  somebody  from  a  little  house  a  long 
distance  off,  bawling  awajr,  and  shaking  his  fists,  '  What 
you  doin'  up  there  ?  Stop  chopping ;  stop  chopping ! 
I'll  make  you  pay  damages  !  '  — '  All  right !  I'll  pay 
damages  !  '  cried  the  head  moving-man  ;  and  just  then 
the  cat  came  back,  and  jumped  in  at  the  window.  The 
drivers  began  to  shout,  and  flourish  their  whips  (like 
this)  :  '  Come  up!'  '  Gee ! '  c  Gee,  I  say ! '  '  Come 
along  ! '  '  Whoa  ! '  '  Back  !  '  '  Get  up  now  ! '  '  Haw 
buck  I '  '  Mind  there ! '  '  Hi,  hi,  hi ! '  '  Now  go  'long ! ' 
The  horses  and  oxen  began  to  draw  with  mighty 
strength ;  the  wheels  began  to  roll ;  and  the  barn 
moved  on. 

"  At  home,  Hepsy  Bacon  and  another  woman,  So- 
phrony  by  name,  sat  at  the  chamber- window,  peeling 
potatoes.  They  had  come  to  help  the  barrel-man's 
wife  get  the  dinner  ready ;  for  the  Paxhamborougk 
moving-men,  and  all  the  oxen-drivers  from  South 
Stromriffe  and  Smithersville  and  Mt.  Lob  and  Trilcr- 
bite  Four  Corners,  must  have  their  dinners.  And  the 
barrel-man  had  said,  '  Watch  out  from  the  chamber- 
windows  ;  and,  when  the  barn  comes  in  sight,  put 
your  potatoes  in  the  pot.' 

"  Three  great  dinner-kettles  were  set  boiling  on  the 
stove,  besides  tea-kettles,  fiying-pans,  stew-pans,  sauce 
pans,  coffee-pots,  tea-pots,  and  rnan3r  other  things. 

"  At  two  o'clock  the  great  brown  barn  came  in  sight, 


HOW  THE  BAKN  CAME  F^QM  JCEULLe*     108 


with  all  the  horses  and  oxen  and  drivers,  and  a  crowd 
of  men  and  bo}Ts  and  dogs  following  on.  Then  ran 
Hepsy  Bacon  and  Sophrony,  and  dropped  into  the  pot 
their  peeled  potatoes,  along  with  the  meat,  cabbages, 
parsnips,  squashes,  turnips,  carrots,  rye-dumplings,  and 
many  other  things  ;  and  the  table  was  set  with  plates, 
spoons,  cups,  saucers,  forks,  knives,  napkins,  tumblers, 
and  many  other  things. 

'  '  At  half-past  two  the  great  brown  barn  came  rolling 
past  the  windows,  with  all  the  twenty  oxen  (twenty 
horned  oxen)  and  horses  (horses  with  tails),  and 
crowds  of  men,  and  drivers  cracking  their  whips,  and 
boys  shouting,  and  dogs  barking,  and  a  grand  hurrah 
all  round.  The  barrel-man's  lame  horse  whinnied  and 
ran  ;  the  cow  mooed  and  ran  ;  the  geese  squawked  and 
ran  ;  the  turkeys  gobbled  and  ran  ;  the  old  pig  grunted 
and  ran  ;  the  little  pigs  squeaked  and  ran  ;  the  liens 
cackled  and  ran  ;  the  two  cats  mewed  and  ran,  and  one 
jumped  up  on  the  house  ;  the  dogs  barked  ;  while 
Hepsy  Bacon  and  Sophrony.,  with  their  long  necks  out 
the  window,  waved  white  handkerchiefs.  When  the 
barn  stopped,  out  leaped  the  cat  that  came  from  Jo- 
rullo,  with  another  kitten  in  her  mouth.  The  boys 
hooted  her,  —  '  Meauw,  meauw  !  —  'st,  'st  !  —  quish  ! 
pr  —  rr  —  IT  —  rr  —  rr!'-—  and  back  she  went  again. 
Somebody  chased  her  in,  and  found  she  had  one  kitten 
there  besides  the  one  in  her  mouth. 

"  When  every  thing  wTas  read}",  the  men  came  in  to 
dinner,  —  tall  men,  short  men,  fat  men,  lean  men,  dark 
men,  light  men,  young  men,  old  men,  curly-haired  men, 
straight-haired  men,  men  with  shaggy  coats,  men  with 
butchers'  frocks,  men  with  bruised  hands,  men  with 


104 '    HOW   THE  BAEN   CAME  FKOM  JORULLO. 

bad  coughs,  men  with  pains  in  their  shoulders,  all 
tired,  and  all  very  hungry  ;  for  they  had  eaten  nothing 
since  early  in  the  morning,  and  had  walked  all  the  way 
from  their  homes  in  South  Stromriffe,  Smithersville, 
Mt.  Lob,  Paxhamborough,  and  Trilerbite  Four  Cor 
ners.  The  barrel-man's  wife  and  Hepsy  Bacon  filled 
up  the  dishes  as  fast  as  they  were  emptied ;  and  So- 
phrony,  with  the  coffee-pot  in  one  hand  and  the  teapot 
in  the  other,  asked  each  one,  '  Tea,  or  coffee,  sir? ' 

"  One  poor  sickly  man  who  was  troubled  with  a  very 
bad  cough  was  asked  to  stay  all  night,  so  that  he  needn't 
take  any  more  cold ;  and  Hepsy  Bacon  and  Sophrony 
made  for  him  in  the  filing-pan  a  cough-medicine  of 
molasses  and  castor-oil  and  pepper  and  sugar  and 
butter  and  vinegar,  and  many  other  things. 

"  Next  morning  there  were  four  kittens  in  the  barn. 
That  cat  must  have  gone  all  the  way  back  to  Jorullo  in 
the  night,  and  brought  those  others,  one  at  a  time. 

"  And  now,  children,"  said  the  family  story-teller  in 
conclusion,  "stand  around  —  little  and  big,  old  and 
young  —  while  I  show  you  the  beautiful,  graphic,  and 
animated  drawings  which  the  barrel-man  made  himself 
on  the  very  day  that  the  barn  came  down  from  Jorullo." 


105 


A  POTATO  STORY  WHICH  BEGINS  WITH  A 
BEAN-POLE. 


THE  family  story-teller,  being  asked  to  tell  one  of 
his  "  ten-minute  "  stories,  said,  "  If  it  will  content 
you,  I  will  tell  you  a  Potato  story  which  begins  with  a 
Beau-Pole. 

' '  Once  there  was  a  Bean-Pole  which  was  stuck  into 
the  ground  by  the  side  of  a  Potato-Hill. 

"  '  Dear  me  ! '  cried  a  young  Cabbage,  growing  near, 
*  what  a  stiff,  poky  thing  that  is !  and  of  no  earthly 
use,  standing  there  doing  nothing.' 

"  But  very  soon  a  Scarlet-Bean,  running  about  in 
search  of  something  to  climb  upon,  found  this  same 
Bean-Pole. 

"'All  right!'  cried  the  happy  little  Bean.  'You 
are  the  very  thing  I  want.  Now  I'll  begin  my  sum 
mer's  work.' 

"  '  Well,  to  be  sure  ! '  cried  young  Cabbage.  '  Every 
thing  comes  to  some  use  at  last.  But  who  would  have 
thought  it ! ' 

"  The  Scarlet-Bean  was  a  spry  little  thing.  She  ran 
up  that  pole  just  as  easy  !  Being  of  a  lively  turn,  she 
began,  at  last,  to  make  fun  of  the  Potato-Plant. 

107 


108  A  POTATO   STORY  WHICH   BEGINS 

"  '  How  sober  you  are  ! '  said  she.  '  Why  don't  you 
try  to  brighten  up,  and  look  more  blooming?  ' 

"The  poor  Potato-Plant,  though  doing  her  best, 
could  only  show  a  few  pale  blooms. 

"'You  don't  mean  to  call  those  things  flowers?' 
cried  the  frisky  Bean.  '  Just  look  at  my  beautiful 
blossoms  !  '  And  she  held  up  a  spray  of  bright  scarlet. 

"  The  Potato-Plant  kept  quiet. 

"  'What  stupid,  useless  things  those  Potato-Plants 
are  !  '  said  young  Cabbage  ;  '  and  how  much  room  they 
take  up !  ' 

"  Summer  passed.  The  Bean  began  to  fill  her  pods, 
and  proud  enough  she  was  of  them. 

"  '  Why  don't  you  do  something?  '  she  cried  to  the 
Potato-Plant  clown  below.  '  Only  see  what  I've  done  ! 
There's  a  summer's  work  for  3*011 ! '  And,  sure  enough, 
she  had  hung  her  full  pods  all  up  and  down  the  pole. 

"  'Yes,  why  don't  you  do  something?'  cried  Cab 
bage.  '  Your  summer  is  gone,  and  nothing  done. 
Can't  you  come  to  a  head?  Any  thing  but  idleness  ! ' 

' '  The  Potato-Plant  still  kept  quiet :  but  when  dig 
ging-time  came,  and  the  hill  was  opened,  and  the  pile 
of  '  Long  Reds  '  appeared,  her  neighbors  could  hardly 
believe  their  senses. 

"  '  Dear  me  !  what  a  surprise  ! '  cried  the  Bean.  '  So 
we  can't  always  tell  by  appearances.' 

"'I  declare!'  cried  Cabbage.  'Then  you  were 
doing  something  all  that  time  !  But  how  could  I  know  ? 
There's  that  Bean :  she  hung  her  pods  up  high,  so 
that  everybody  could  see.  'Well,  well,  well !  After 
this,  I'll  always  say  of  a  plant  which  makes  but  little 
show,  "Wait:  potatoes  inside  there,  maybe."  ' 


WITH    A   BEAN-POLE.  109 

"There  are  a  great  many  Scarlet-Beans  among  the 
people  I  know,"  said  the  family  story-teller,  "  and 
some  Potato-Plants  too,  and  perhaps  a  few  young  Cab- 
bage-IIeads." 


THE  WAY  IKS.  MACGAKKET'S  TEA-PAKTY  WAS 
BKOKEN  UP. 


MRS.  MACGARRET  was  an  attic  cat,  and  lived  in 
the  garret ;  but  Mrs.  O'Cellary  lived  in  the  cellar. 
Mrs.  MacGarret  had  three  children,  and  Mrs.  O' Cellary 
had  three  children.  Mr.  MacGarret  had  gone  away, 
and  so  had  Mr.  O'Cellary.  Mrs.  MacGarret' s  children 
were  all  of  an  age,  and  Mrs.  O'Cellary's  children  were 
all  of  an  age.  The  names  of  the  MacGarret  children 
were  Spotty  MacGarret,  Tabby  MacGarret,  and  Tilly 
MacGarret.  The  O'Cellary  children  were  named,  the 
first,  Dinah  O'Cellary,  after  its  mother;  the  second, 
Thomas  O'Cellary,  after  its  father  ;  while  the  third  was 
called  Bengal  Tiger  O'Cellary,  after  one  of  their  grand- 
relations. 

One  day  Mrs.  MacGarret  said  to  her  children,  "My 
dears,  I  have  decided  to  have  company  this  afternoon. 
I  shall  invite  Mrs.  O'Cellary  and  her  family.  Behave 
well,  or  you  will  be  punished.  At  supper  eat  the  poor 
est,  and  give  the  best  to  the  company.  Be  very  quiet, 
and  never  interrupt.  That  you  may  look  your  best, 
I.  shall  put  up  your  tails  in  curl-papers.  Now,  don't 
no 


MRS.  MACGARRET'S  TEA-PARTY.         Ill 

cry  if  I  pull  some."  And  they  shut  their  mouths 
tight,  and  never  uttered  a  sound. 

"Good  children!"  said  Mrs.  MacGarret.  "Now 
you  may  go  down  and  invite  the  company." 

"What,  in  curl-papers!"  cried  Spotty.  "Oh,  not 
in  curl-papers!"  cried  Tabby.  "You  can't  mean  in 
curl-papers  !  "  cried  Tilly.. 

"  True,"  said  their  mother :  "  you  can't  go  in  curl 
papers.  I'll  step  down  myself." 

"But  we're  afraid  to  stay  alone  !  "  cried  Spotty  and 
Tabby  and  Tilly.  "Don't  go!"  "Don't  go!" 
"Don't  go!"  And  each  held  up  her  fore-paw,  and 
begged  and  pra}Ted  and  wept. 

' '  Poor  darlings  ! ' '  said  Mrs.  MacGarret :  c '  how  can 
I  leave  you?  Now,  if  we  were  but  good  friends  with 
Mr.  Rat,  how  easily  he  could  do  the  errand !  for 
yonder  rat-hole  leads  to  the  cellar  straight." 

"Can't  you  speak  down  to  her?  "  asked  Spott}7.  "I 
think  you  might  speak  down,"  said  Tabby.  "Do 
speak  down  !  ' '  cried  Tilly. 

"To  be  sure,"  said  Mrs.  MacGarret:  "of  course  I 
can.  'Tis  often  done  in  hotels.  What  smart  children 
you  are  ! ' ' 

Then  Mrs.  MacGarret  spoke  down,  and  invited  Mrs. 
O'Cellary  and  her  family  to  tea  at  seven  o'clock  ;  and 
Mrs.  O'Cellary  answered  up  that  they  would  be  most 
happy. 

At  quarter  before  seven  the  curl-papers  were  taken 
out. 

"Charming!"  cried  Mrs.  MacGarret.  "All  stand 
in  a  row,  that  I  may  see.  Charming  !  Don't  move  !" 

At  seven  o'clock  Mrs.  O'Cellary  arrived  with  all  her 


112      THE  WAY  MRS.  MACGARRET's  TEA-PARTY 

children,  and  two  j'oung  cousins  who  were  paying  her 
a  visit :  and,  as  it  was  a  grand  occasion,  supper  was 
laid  out  on  a  black  leather  trunk  bordered  with  brass 
nails  ;  and  nothing  could  have  been  more  elegant. 

Now,  this  was  what  Mrs.  MacGarret  set  before  them 
for  supper  :  first,  mouse  ;  second,  scraps  ;  third,  codfish 
dried  ;  fourth,  squash  in  the  rind,  brought  up  from  the 
kitchen  in  the  dead  of  the  night.  Mrs.  MacGarret 
lamented  that  she  was  out  of  milk  ;  but  their  saucer  was 
licked  dry  at  dinner,  and  the  milkman  had  not  been 
round.  But  the  company  all  said  they  seldom  took 
milk,  and  that  ever}7  thing  was  lovely.  The  talk  was 
very  entertaining,  being  mostly  about  the  boldness  of  a 
mouse,  who  would  peep  out  of  his  hole  at  them,  but 
who  popped  back  again  the  minute  they  stirred.  They 
also  talked  much  of  the  bad  boy.  A  new  little  whip 
had  been  given  him,  and  travelling  through  the  pas 
sages  was  really  quite  unsafe. 

"We  were  in  great  danger  coming  up,  I  assure 
you,"  said  Mrs.  O'Cellary. 

"Very  great  danger,  ma'am,"  said  Thomas. 

"  We  ran  for  our  lives,  ma'am,"  said  Bengal  T. 

"Be  not  so  forward  to  speak  in  older  company," 
whispered  Mrs.  O'Cellary. 

After  supper  a  neighbor  dropped  in  from  the  next 
attic,  bringing  her  children ;  and  there  was  a  very 
merry  party ;  and  all  would  have  gone  well  but  for 
Tabby  MacGarret,  who  did  not  do  the  right  thing. 
This  is  how  it  happened. 

All  the  mothers  sat  down  on  a  spinning-wheel  to 
have  a  cosey  talk,  and  the  children  had  great  sport 
with  the  funn}^  little  mouse.  First  he  .would  peep  out 


WAS  BROKEN  UP.  113 

of  his  hole,  and  wink  at  them  ;  and,  when  they  all  jumped 
for  him,  he  would  dodge  back  again  ;  and  the  next  thing 
they  knew  his  little  black  eyes  would  be  peeping  out 
from  another  hole.  Then  they  would  jump  again.  But 
he  always  popped  back  just  in  time. 

"Now  do  come  out,  mousey,  and  play  with  us," 
they  said. 

Said  mousey,  "  I  like  this  better." 

Now,  Mrs.  MacGarret  had  given  the  children  all  that 
was  left  at  supper  to  divide  among  themselves.  They 
chose  one  to  divide  it ;  and  Tabby  MacGarret  was  the 
one  chosen.  Pretty  soon  Spotty  saw  her  clap  some 
thing  under  her  paw  in  a  very  private  way  ;  and,  guess 
ing  that  all  was  not  right,  she  stepped  softly  round 
behind,  and  just  bit  the  end  of  her  tail.  This  made 
Tabby  lift  up  her  paw,  and  then  —  they  all  saw  !  She 
had  taken  the  best  piece  for  herself ! 

Such  a  time  as  there  was  !  "  O  shame  !  "  u  Shame  !  " 
1 '  Shame  ! ' '  cried  Spotty  and  Tommy  and  Dinah  ;  and 
"Shame!"  cried  Bengal  Tiger  O'Cellary.  And  they 
all  hissed  and  sputtered ;  and  Tabby  ran  down  the 
garret-stairs  with  all  the  others  after  her,  and  all 
the  mothers  behind.  The  bad  boy  was  standing  in  the 
passage  with  his  new  whip ;  and  he  snapped  it  and 
cracked  it  till  they  were  frightened  out  of  their 
wits,  and  scampered  to  hide  where  best  they  could. 

And  it  was  in  this  way  that  Mrs.  MacGarret's  tea 
party  was  broken  up. 


GETTING  UP  IN  TIE  WORLD. 


"  T\/T  OTHER,  do  butterflies  remember  when  they  were 

JLT_L     worms  and  caterpillars  ? ' '  inquired  Natty. 

"What  puzzling  questions  you  children  do  ask!" 
said  his  mother.  "The  idea  never  entered  my  head. 
You  must  ask  your  uncle  Joe." 

"Uncle  Joe,"  asked  Natty,  again,  "do  butterflies 
remember  when  they  were  worms  and  caterpillars  ? ' ' 

"Why,  no!"  said  uncle  Joe.  "I  should  say  not, 
if  all  stories  are  true." 

"  What  stories  do  you  mean,  uncle  Joe?  " 

"I  am  thinking  now,"  said  uncle  Joe,  "  of  a  story 
I  once  heard,  which  perhaps  you  will  like  to  hear. 
Yes?  Then  I  will  tell  it. 

"  A  poor  tired  worm  was  one  day  crawling  slowly 
along  the  ground,  seeking  for  food ;  while  above  her 
happy  insects  darted  through  the  air,  their  bright  wings 
flashing  in  the  sunlight. 

"'  Alas !'  sighed  the  worm,  'what  a  toilsome  life 
is  ours !  We  move  only  by  great  labor,  and,  even 
with  that,  can  never  travel  far.  Kept  near  the  damp 
ground,  liable  at  any  moment  to  be  crushed,  toiling  up 
and  down  rough  stalks,  eating  tough  leaves,  — for  it  is 
114 


GETTING  UP  IN  THE  WORLD.  115 

only  now  and  then  we  find  a  flower,  —  oh,  it  is  truly  a 
wearisome  life  ! 

"  '  Yet  none  seem  to  pity  our  sorrows.  Those  proud 
insects  flitting  overhead, — the  miller,  the  butterfly, 
the  dragon-fly,  the  golden  bumble-bee, — they  never 
notice  us.  Oh,  but  life  goes  well  with  them !  Flying 
is  so  easy  !  Wherever  they  wish  to  be,  they  have  only 
to  spread  their  wings,  and  the  summer  wind  bears  them 
on.  Dressed  gayry,  at  home  with  all  the  flowers,  living 
on  sweets,  seeing  fine  sights,  hearing  all  that  is  to  be 
heard,  what  care  they  for  us  poor  plodders?  Selfish 
creatures,  the}r  think  only  of  themselves.  Now,  for  my 
part,  if  I  had  wings,  and  could  move  about  so  easily, 
I  would  think  sometimes  of  the  poor  worms  down  be 
low  who  cannot  fly.  I  would  bring  them  now  and  then 
a  sip  of  honey,  or  a  taste  of  something  nice  from  the 
flower-gardens  far  away.  I  would  come  down  and  speak 
a  kind  word ;  tell  them  something  good  to  hear ;  in 
short,  be  friendly.  Oh,  if  one  only  had  wings,  how 
much  good  one  might  do !  But  these  selfish  creatures 
never  think  of  that.' 

"  Not  long  afterward,  this  complaining  worm  was 
changed  into  a  butterfly.  Spreading  her  light  wings, 
she  passed  the  happy  hours  in  flitting  from  field  to  field, 
rocking  in  the  flower-cups,  idling  about  where  the  sun 
shine  was  brightest,  sipping  where  the  honey  was  sweet 
est.  Oh  !  a  right  gay  butterfly  was  she,  and  no  summer 
day  ever  seemed  too  long. 

"  One  morning,  while  resting  upon  an  opening  rose 
bud,  she  saw  below  her  a  couple  of  worms,  making  their 
slow  way  over  the  ground. 

"  '  Poor  creatures  ! '  she  said.     '  Life  goes  hard  with 


116  GETTING  UP  IN   THE  WORLD. 

them.  Dull  things,  how  little  they  know  !  It  must  be 
stupid  enough  down  there.  No  doubt  their  lives  could 
be  brightened  if  proper  means  were  taken.  Some  few 
pleasures  or  comforts  might  be  given  them  ;  and  I  hope 
this  will  be  done.  If  I  were  not  so  busy  —  but  really 
I  haven't  a  moment  to  spare.  To-day  there  is  a  rose- 
party,  and  all  the  butterflies  are  going  there.  To 
morrow  the  sweet-pea  party  comes  off,  and  all  the 
butterflies  are  going  there.  Next  day  the  grasshoppers 
give  a  grand  hop,  and  at  sundown  there  will  be  a 
serenade  by  the  crickets.  Every  hour  is  occupied. 
The  bumble-bees  and  hornets  are  getting  up  a  concert. 
Then  there  is  a  new  flower  blossoming  in  a  garden  far 
away,  and  all  are  filing  to  see  it.  The  two  rich  butter 
flies —  Lady  Golden-Spot  and  Madame  Royal-Purple  — 
have  arrived  in  great  state,  and  they  will  expect  great 
attentions.  The  bees  have  had  a  lucky  summer,  and, 
in  honor  of  these  new  arrivals,  have  promised  to  give  a 
grand  honey-festival,  at  which  the  queen  herself  will 
preside.  The  wasps  are  on  the  police  ;  and  they  will, 
I  trust,  keep  out  the  vulgar.  The  gnats  and  mosqui 
toes  have  formed  a  military  company,  called  the  Flying 
Militia,  which  will  serve,  if  needed.  It  is  to  be  hoped 
that  no  low  creatures,  like  the  two  creeping  along  below, 
will  intrude  themselves.  Poor  things !  If  I  had  the 
time,  I  really  would  try  to  do  something  for  them  ;  but 
every  sunny  day  is  taken  up,  and  stirring  out  in  the  wet 
is  not  to  be  thought  of. 

u  '  Besides,  one  meets  with  so  much  that  is  not  pleas 
ant  in  mixing  with  low  people.  Their  homes  are  not 
always  cleanly  :  I  might  soil  my  wings.  And,  if  once 
taken  notice  of,  they  will  always  expect  to  be.  Why 


GETTING    UP   IN   THE   WOULD.  117 

make  them  dissatisfied?  They  are  well  enough  off  as 
they  are.  Perhaps,  after  all,  it  is  my  duty  not  to 
meddle  with  them  :  in  fact,  I  have  no  doubt  of  it. 

"  '  Plere  comes  Miss  Gossamer.  Welcome,  Miss  Gos 
samer  !  All  ready  for  the  rose-party  ?  How  sweetly 
3~ou  look !  -Wait  one  moment  till  I  have  washed  my 
face  in  this  dew-drop :  the  sun  has  nearly  dried  it  up 
while  I  have  been  pit}ing  those  mean  worms  below 
there.  It  is  folly,  I  know,  to  thus  waste  the  time  ;  but 
my  feelings  are  so  tender  !  I  actually  thought  of  call 
ing  !  What  would  Lad}'  Golden-Spot  think,  or  Madame 
Roj'al-Purple  ?  Have  you  seen  them  pass  ?  They  are 
sure  to  be  there.  Do  you  suppose  they  will  take  notice 
of  us?  If  they  don't,  I  shall  be  perfectly  wretched. 
Come,  dear  Miss  Gossamer,  one  more  sip,  and  then 
away!'" 


THE  STOEY  OP  FLOKINDA. 


A  PARTY  of  small  cousins  were  spending  New- 
Year's  at  grandma  Bowen's  ;  and,  while  waiting 
for  tea,  they  begged  her  to  tell  them  the  story  of  Flo- 
rinda,  —  some  because  they  had  never  heard  it,  others 
because  they  had.  The  old  lady  was  more  than  will- 
.  ing.  "Yes,"  said  she,  "we  Bowens  ought  to  keep 
alive  the  memory  of  Florinda,  the  faithful  hired  girl ; 
and  I  will  tell  you  the  story  just  as  }^our  grandfather 
told  it  to  me,  and  just  as  his  grandfather  told  it  to  him, 
and  as  his  grandfather  told  it  to  him.  Your  grand 
father's  grandfather's  grandfather  remembered  Nathan 
iel  Bo  wen  very  well ;  and  his  father  —  Nathaniel  Bow- 
en's  father,  the  first  Mr.  Bowen  of  all  —  came  over 
from  England  in  the  bark  '  Jasper '  more  than  two 
hundred  years  ago.  He  brought  his  family  with  him, 
and  they  settled  in  this  very  place  where  we  live  now. 
The  country  was  covered  with  woods  then.  Indians, 
buffaloes,  deer,  wolves,  and  foxes  had  it  pretty  much 
to  themselves. 

"  But,  if  I  am  going  to  tell  the  story/'  continued  the 
old  lady,  suddenly  raising  her  voice,  and  sitting  straight 
in  her  chair,  "there  is  something  to  be  done  first,  so 
118 


THE  STORY   OF   FLOBINDA.  119 

that  we  may  seem  to  see  just  how  they  lived  in  those 
da3's.  For  instance,  carry  out  the  furniture,  and  the 
stove,  pictures,  carpet  (make  believe,  you  know)  ;  then 
tear  the  house  down,  leaving  only  this  one  room,  and 
let  this  one  room  pass  for  that  one-roomed  hut.  But 
knock  away  lath  and  plaster  :  the  walls  must  be  made 
of  logs ;  the  same  overhead.  Cut  square  holes  for 
windows,  and  hang  wooden  shutters  inside  (one  of  the 
square  holes  may  have  four  small  panes  of  glass)  ; 
cover  the  others  with  oiled  paper  (there  was  no  glass 
made  in  this  country  then) .  Let  a  stone  chimney  run 
up  through  the  logs  overhead  at  one  end ;  and  at  the 
other  end  a  ladder,  leading  to  a  loft:  the  fireplace 
must  be  very  large.  And  now,  to  furnish  the  hut, 
bring  in  a  bed,  a  meal-chest,  a  large,  heavy  clothes- 
chest,  a  spinning-wheel,  a  bench  or  two,  and  a  few 
chairs.  Can  you  see  that  hut  now?  " 

"And  the  stumps!"  cried  some  of  the  listeners, 
who  knew  the  whole  story. 

"Yes,  dears,"  said  the  old  lady,  looking  pleased, 
"  and  some  stumps  of  trees,  sawed  off  short,  for  the 
children  to  sit  on. 

' '  There  was  one  house  beside  in  the  valley,  and  only 
one,  and  that  belonged  to  a  man  named  Moore.  It 
stood  nearly  an  eighth  of  a  mile  off  in  that  direction  " 
(pointing) .  "  Four  miles  off  in  that  direction  "  (point 
ing  the  opposite  way),  "at  the  Point,  called  then 
Mackerel  Point,  there  were  some  dozen  or  twenty 
houses,  a  store,  and  a  mill.  There  was  no  road  be 
tween  here  and  the  Point :  there  was  only  a  blind  path 
way  through  the  woods.  Those  woods  reached  hundreds 
and  hundreds  of  miles. 


120  THE   STORY   OF  FLORINDA. 

"  When  Mr.  Bowen  had  lived  in  this  country  a  little 
more  than  a  year,  his  wife  died,  leaving  three  children, 
—  Philip,  not  quite  eleven  3rears  old;  Nathaniel,  six; 
and  Polly,  three :  and  to  take  care  of  these  children, 
and  to  keep  his  house,  he  hired  a  young  girl  named 
Florinda  LeShore,  who  came  over  from  England  as  ser 
vant  in  some  family.  This  Florinda  was  born  in  France  ; 
but  she  had  spent  the  greater  part  of  her  life  in  England. 
She  was  only  fifteen  years  old,  —  rather  young  to  take 
the  care  of  a  family.  There  were  so  few  whites  in  this 
country  then,  however,  that  Mr.  Bowen  was  glad  to 
get  even  a  girl  fifteen  years  old.  I  suppose  he  little 
thought  she  would  be  the  means  of  saving  the  lives 
of  two  of  his  children. 

"  Florinda  hired  out  to  Mr.  Bowen  some  time  in 
November.  On  the  29th  of  December,  as  Mr.  Bowen 
and  Mr.  Moore  were  saddling  their  horses  to  go  to  the 
store  for  provisions,  word  came  that  they  must  set  out 
immediately  for  a  place  about  fifteen  miles  off,  called 
Dermott's  Crossing,  to  consult  with  other  settlers  as 
to  what  should  be  done  to  defend  themselves  against 
the  Indians  ;  for  there  were  reports  that  in  some  neigh 
borhoods  the  Indians  were  doing  mischief. 

"  So  the  two  men  turned  their  horses'  heads  in  the 
direction  of  Dermott's  Crossing.  It  was  woods  most 
of  the  way  ;  but  they  knew  the  general  direction  of  the 
bridle-path,  and  thought  they  should  make  good  time, 
and  be  back  by  noon  of  the  next  day.  Florinda 
baked  corn-meal  into  thin  cakes,  and  put  the  cakes  and 
some  slices  of  bacon  into  the  saddle-bags  along  with 
corn  for  the  horse.  The  men  were  to  return  by  way  of 
the  store,  and  bring  provisions. 


THE  STORY   OF  FLORINDA.  121 

"Two  da}~s  and  two  nights  passed,  and  they 
had  neither  come,  nor  sent  any  message.  By  that 
time  there  was  not  much  left  to  eat  in  either  house. 
Florinda  and  the  children  slept  both  nights  at  Mrs. 
Moore's.  Mr.  Bowen  said  it  would  be  better  for  them 
to  sleep  there.  He  did  not  fear  any  actual  danger 
(the  Indians  in  this  neighborhood  had  never  been  trou 
blesome  at  all)  :  still,  in  case  any  thing  should  hap 
pen,  Mrs.  Moore's  house  was  much  the  safer  of  the 
two.  It  was  built  of  heavy  timbers  ;  and  its  doors  were 
oak,  studded  with  spikes.  The  Indians  never  attacked 
a  strong  house  like  that,  especially  if  it  were  guarded 
by  a  white  man  with  fire-arms.  Mrs.  Moore  was  a 
feeble  woman.  She  had  two  little  children ;  and  her 
brother  was  then  living  with  her,  —  a  }'oung  man  named 
David  Palmer,  at  that  time  confined  in  doors  on  account 
of  having  frozen  his  feet  badly. 

11  On  the  second  morning,  Philip  begged  Florinda  to 
let  him  take  his  hand-sled  and  go  to  the  store  and 
get  some  meal  and  some  bacon  for  themselves  and 
Mrs.  Moore.  Florinda  felt  loath  to  let  him  go.  It 
was  a  long  distance  :  there  was  snow  in  the  woods,  and 
no  track.  But  Philip  said  that  he  wasn't  afraid :  the 
oldest  boy  ought  to  take  care  of  the  family.  And  at 
last  Florinda  said  he  might  go :  indeed,  there  seemed 
no  other  way  ;  for,  unless  he  did,  they  might  all  starve, 
especially  if  there  should  come  on  a  heavy  snow-storm. 

"  Philip  had  a  hand-sled  made  of  barrel-staves.  He 
took  this  hand-sled,  and  took  a  shovel  to  dig  his  way 
through  the  open  places  where  the  snow  would  be 
drifted.  Mrs.  Moore  had  him  start  from  her  house, 
because  she  wanted  to  be  sure  he  was  well  wrapped 


122  THE   STOEY   OF  FLORINDA. 

up.  She,  as  well  as  Florinda,  felt  badly  about  his 
going.  There  was  danger  that  he  would  lose  his  way ; 
and  there  were  other  dangers,  which  neither  of  them 
liked  to  speak  of.  He  left  home  in  good  spirits,  about 
nine  o'clock  in  the  morning,  on  the  thirty-first  day 
of  December,  promising  to  be  back  before  evening. 

"  Florinda  spent  the  day  in  spinning  and  in  other 
work  for  the  family.  As  soon  as  it  .began  to  grow 
dark,  Mrs.  Moore  sent  her  little  boy  over  to  inquire. 
Florinda  sent  word  back  that  Philip  had  not  come,  but 
that  she  expected  him  every  minute,  and  that  she 
should  wait  until  he  did  come  before  going  over  to 
Mrs.  Moore's. 

"  After  the  boy  had  gone  back,  Florinda  barred  the 
door,  and  shut  all  the  window-shutters  but  one.  She 
left  that  open,  so  that  Philip  might  see  the  firelight 
shining  through.  The  children  began  to  cry  because 
Philip  was  out  all  alone  in  the  dark  woods ;  and  Flo 
rinda  did  every  thing  she  could  to  take  up  their  minds. 
Nathaniel  told  afterward  of.  her  rolling  up  the  cradle- 
quilt  into  a  baby  for  little  Polly,  and  pinning  an  apron 
on  it ;  and  of  her  setting  him  letters  to  copy  on  the 
bellows  with  chalk.  He  said  she  tied  a  strip  of  cloth 
round  his  head  to  keep  the  hair  out  of  his  eyes  when 
he  bent  over  to  make  the  letters.  He  remembered  her 
telling  them  stories  about  the  people  in  France,  of  their 
out-door  dancings  and  their  grape-pickings  ;  and  that,  to 
amuse  them,  she  took  from  her  clothes-box  a  spangled 
work-bag  that  was  made  in  France  ;  and  then  took  out 
a  funny  high-crowned  cap  her  mother  used  to  wear, 
and  put  the  cap  on  her  own  head  to  make  them  laugh  ; 
and  that,  when  little  Polly  wanted  a  cap  too,  she  twisted 


THE  STORY  OF   FLORINDA.  123 

up  a  handkerchief  into  the  shape  of  a  cap  for  her ; 
and  he  remembered  her  stopping  her  wheel  very  often 
to  listen  for  Philip.  He  always  spoke  of  Florinda.  as 
a  sprightly,  bright-eyed  girl,  who  was  pleasing  both 
in  her  looks- and  her  manners. 

"At  last  little  Polly  fell  asleep,  and  was  placed  on 
the  bed.  Nathaniel  laid  his  head  on  Florinda' s  lap, 
and  dropped  asleep  there,  and  slept  till  she  got  up  to 
put  more  wood  on.  It  was  then  nearly  twelve  o'clock. 
He  woke  in  a  fright,  and  crying.  He  had  been  dream 
ing  about  wolves. 

' '  In  the  midst  of  his  crying  there  came  a  tap  at  the 
door.  Florinda  made  no  answer.  Then  a  voice  said, 
4 'St,  'st!'  Still  she  made  no  answer.  Then  the 
voice  said  softly,  '•Florinda ! '  It  was  the  }roung  man 
David  Palmer,  Mrs.  Moore's  brother.  He  had  crawled 
all  the  way  from  the  other  house  to  see  if  they  were 
safe,  and  ask  if  they  would  not  come  over.  Florinda 
said  no  ;  that  it  would  soon  be  morning ;  that  she  had 
plenty  of  work  to  do,  and  that  she  was  not  afraid  :  the 
Indians  had  always  been  kind  to  the  family,  and  the 
family  to  them.  The  j'oung  man  told  her  that  what 
had  happened  in  far-off  neighborhoods  might  happen 
there  ;  that,  at  any  rate,  the  window-shutter  ought  to  be 
shut  to  keep  the  light  from  shining  out,  in  case  any 
Indians  passed  through  the  woods ;  and  that,  when 
Philip  got  within  half  a  mile  of  the  house,  he  could 
keep  his  course  by  the  brook.  Florinda  closed  the 
shutter.  He  pointed  to  a  knot-hole  in  the  shutter,  and 
she  hung  a  shawl  over  it.  Then  he  dried  his  fur 
mittens  a  few  minutes  longer  at  the  blaze,  and  went 
back  to  stay  with  his  sister. 


124  THE  STOKY  OF  FLORINDA. 

i '  When  the  }7oung  man  had  been  gone  a  little 
while,  Nathaniel  climbed  up  and  looked  through  the 
knot-hole,  and  told  Florinda  he  saw  a  fire  in  the 
woods.  Florinda  said  she  thought  not ;  that  maybe  it 
was  the  moon  rising ;  and  kept  on  with  her  spinning.  By 
and  b}^  he  looked  again,  and  said  he  did  see  a  fire,  and 
some  Indians  sitting  down  by  it.  Florinda  left  her 
wheel  then,  and  looked  through,  and  said  yes,  it  was 
so.  She  kept  watch  afterward,  and  saw  them  put  out 
the  fire,  and  go  away  into  the  woods  toward  the  Point. 
She  told  Nathaniel  of  this,  and  then  held  him  in  her 
arms  and  sang  songs,  low,  in  a  language  he  could  not 
understand.  By  this  time  the  night  was  far  spent. 

"On  the  back-side  of  the  hut,  near  the  fireplace, 
there  had  been  in  the  summer  a  hole  or  tunnel  dug 
through  to  the  outside  under  the  logs.  It  was  begun  by 
a  tame  rabbit  that  belonged  to  Nathaniel.  The  rabbit 
burrowed  out,  and  got  away.  The  children  at  play  dug 
the  hole  deeper  and  wider,  and  it  came  quite  handy  in 
getting  in  firewood.  This  passage  was  about  four  feet 
deep.  They  called  it  the  back  doorway.  "When  winter 
came  on,  it  was  filled  up  with  sand  and  moss.  Florinda 
thought  it  well  to  be  prepared  for  any  thing  which  might 
happen ;  and  therefore  she  spent  the  latter  part  of  that 
night  in  taking  the  filling  from  the  back  doorway.  The 
outer  part  was  frozen  hard,  and  had  to  be  thawed  with 
hot  water.  When  this  was  done,  she  took  the  work-bag 
out  of  her  clothes-box,  and  put  into  it  Mr.  Bowen's 
papers  and  the  teaspoons  (among  the  papers  were 
deeds  of  property  in  England).  Little  Polly  waked 
and  cried,  and  both  children  complained  of  being 
hungry.  There  were  a  few  handfuls  of  meal  left. 


THE   STORY  OF  FLORINDA.  125 

Florinda  baked  it  into  a  cake,  and  divided  it  between 
them.  She  said  a  great  deal  to  Nathaniel  about  taking 
care  of  little  Polly ;  told  him,  that,  if  an}7  bad  Indians 
came  to  the  door,  he  must  catch  hold  of  her  hand,  and 
run  just  as  quick  as  he  could,  through  the  back  way, 
to  Mrs.  Moore's.  Her  chief  care,  then  and  afterward, 
seemed  to  be  for  the  children.  And,  when  danger 
came  in  earnest,  she  made  no  attempt  to  save  herself: 
her  only  thought  was  to  save  them. 

' '  While  she  was  talking  to  Nathaniel  in  the  way 
I  have  said,  they  heard  a  step  outside.  It  was  then  a 
little  after  daybreak.  Some  one  tapped  at  the  door ; 
and  a  strange  voice  said,  '  A  friend ;  open  quick  I ' 
She  opened  the  door,  and  found  a  white  man  standing 
there.  This  white  man  told  her  that  unfriend!}7  In 
dians  were  prowling  about  to  rob,  to  kill,  and  to  burn 
dwelling-houses,  and  that  several  were  known  to  be  in 
that  very  neighborhood.  The  man  was  a  messenger 
sent  to  warn  people.  He  could  not  stop  a  moment. 
This  was  on  the  morning  of  the  1st  of  January.  As 
soon  as  the  man  had  gone,  Florinda  double-barred  the 
door,  raked  ashes  over  the  fire,  put  on  her  things  and. 
the  children's  things,  and  got  reacty  to  go  with  them 
over  to  Mrs.  Moore's.  She  made  up  several  bundles  ; 
gave  one  to  each  of  the  children,  and  took  one  herself. 
But,  before  starting,  she  opened  the  shutter  a  crack, 
and  looked  out ;  and  there  she  saw  two  Indians  coming 
toward  the  door.  She  flung  down  her  bundle  ;  snatched 
the  children's  away  from  them ;  hung  the  work-bag 
round  Nathaniel's  neck,  whispering  to  him,  '  Run,  run ! 
you'll  have  time;  I'll  keep  them  out  till  you  get  away ! ' 
all  the  while  pulling  at  the  clothes-chest.  lie  heard  the 


126  THE  STOEY  OF  FLORINDA. 

Indians  yell,  and  saw  Florinda  brace  herself  against 
the  door,  with  her  feet  on  the  chest.  ;  Run,  run!' 
she  kept  sa}Ting.  '  Take  care  of  little  Polly!  don't 
let  go  of  little  Polly !' 

4 '  Nathaniel  ran  with  little  Polly ;  and  on  the  way 
they  met  the  young  man,  David  Palmer,  creeping  along 
with  his  gun.  He  had  got  the  news,  and  had  come 
to  tell  Florinda  to  hurry  away.  Just  at  that  moment 
he  heard  the  yells-  of  the  Indians,  and  the  sound  of 
their  clubs  beating  in  the  door.  David  Palmer  said 
afterward,  that  it  seemed  to  him  he  never  should  reach 
that  house :  and,  when  he  had  almost  reached  it,  his 
gun  failed  him ;  or  rather  his  hands  failed  to  hold  it. 
He  started  without  his  mittens ;  and  his  lingers  were 
stiff  and  numb  from  creeping  over  the  frozen  snow. 

"  He  threw  the  gun  down,  and  went  on  just  as  fast 
as  a  man  could  in  such  a  condition,  and  presently  saw 
two  Indians  start  from  the  house,  and  run  into  the 
woods,  dropping  several  things  on  the  way,  —  stolen 
articles,  some  of  which  were  afterward  found.  He 
listened  a  moment,  and  heard  dogs  barking  ;  then  crept 
round  the  corner  of  the  house.  The  door  had  been  cut 
away.  Florinda  lay  across  the  chest,  dead,  as  he 
thought ;  and  indeed  she  was  almost  gone.  They  had 
beaten  her  on  the  head  with  a  hatchet  or  a  club.  One 
blow  more,  and  Florinda  would  never  have  breathed 
again.  David  Palmer  did  every  thing  he  could  do  to 
make  her  show  some  signs  of  life ;  and  was  so  intent 
upon  this,  that  he  paid  no  attention  to  the  barking  of 
the  dogs,  and  did  not  notice  that  it  was  growing  louder, 
and  coming  nearer  every  moment.  Happening  to  glance 
toward  the  door,  he  saw  a  man  on  horseback,  riding 


THE   STORY   OF   FLOKINDA.  127 

very  slowly  toward  the  house,  leading  another  horse 
with  his  right  hand,  and  with  his  left  drawing  some 
thing  heavy  on  a  sled.  The  man  on  horseback  was 
Mr.  Moore.  He  was  leading  Mr.  Bowen's  horse  with 
his  right  hand,  and  with  the  other  he  was  dragging  Mr. 
Bowen  on  Philip's  hand-sled.'" 

" Philip?"  cried  two  or  three.  "  Did  lie  come?  " 
"  No,  — yes  ;  that  is,  he  came  at  last.  He  had  not 
come,  though,  at  the  time  of  their  finding  his  sled. 
Mr.  Moore  found  the  sled,  or  rather  Mr.  Moore's 
dog  found  it,  as  they  were  riding  along.  Those  two 
men  had  a  good  reason  for  staying  away  ;  though  such 
a  reason  can  hardly  be  called  good.  Coming  home  from 
Dermott's  Crossing,  Mr.  Bowen  was  taken  sick.  They 
knew  of  a  house  a  mile  or  two  out  of  the  way,  and 
went  to  it.  There  was  nobody  there.  The  family  had 
left  on  account  of  the  Indians ;  but  Mr.  Moore  found 
some  means  of  getting  in. 

' '  Just  as  soon  as  Mr.  Bowen  was  able  to  be  bound 
to  his  horse,  and  carried,  they  set  out  for  home,  but 
had  to  travel  at  a  very  slow  pace.  AVhen  they  had 
almost  reached  home,  Mr.  Moore's  dog,  in  racing 
through  the  woods,  stopped  at  a  clump  of  bushes  ;  and 
there  he  sniffed  and  scratched  and  3'elped,  and  made  a 
great  ado.  Then  Mr.  Bowen's  dog  did  the  same.  Mr. 
Moore  hitched  the  horses,  and  went  to  see,  and  found 
Philip's  sled  among  the  bushes,  with  a  bag  of  meal  on 
it,  and  a  shoulder  of  bacon.  Mr.  Bowen  being  then 
weary  and  faint,  and  much  travel-bruised,  Mr.  Moore 
put  the  bag  of  meal  and  the  bacon  on  the  horse,  then 
covered  the  sled  with  boughs,  and  laid  Mr.  Bowen  on 
top  of  them,  and  drew  him  along.  It  was  supposed  that 
the  barking  of  those  dogs  frightened  away  the  Indians. 


128  THE   STORY  OF  FLOEINDA. 

"Philip  himself  left  the  sled  under  those  bushes. 
That  day  he  went  to  the  Point,  he  had  to  wait  for  corn 
to  be  ground,  which  made  him  late  in  starting  for  home. 
He  heard  a  good  many  reports  concerning  the  In 
dians,  and  thought,  that,  instead  of  keeping  in  his  own 
tracks,  it  would  be  safer  to  take  a  roundabout  course 
back  ;  and,  by  doing  this,  he  lost  his  way,  and  wandered 
in  the  woods  till  almost  twelve  o'clock  at  night,  when 
he  came  out  upon  a  cleared  place,  where  there  were 
several  log-huts.  The  people  in  one  of  these  let  him 
come  in  and  sleep  on  the  floor,  and  they  gave  him  a 
good  meal  of  meat  and  potatoes.  He  set  out  again  be 
tween  four  and  five  in  the  morning,  guided  by  a  row  of 
stars  that  those  people  pointed  out  to  him. 

"  A  little  after  daybreak,  being  then  about  a  quar 
ter  of  a  mile  from  home,  in  a  hilly  place,  he  thought  he 
would  leave  iiis  sled,  the  load  was  so  hard  to  draw, 
and  run  ahead  and  tell  the  folks  about  the  Indians. 
So  he  pushed  it  under  some  bushes  ;  and  then,  to  mark 
the  spot,  he  took  one  of  his  "shoe-strings,  and  tied  one 
of  his  mittens  high  up  on  the  limb  of  a  tree." 

"One  of  his  leather  shoe-strings!  "  cried  some  of 
those  who  knew  the  whole  story. 

"  Yes,  my  dears,"  said  the  old  lady,  looking  pleased 
again,  "  one  of  his  leather  shoe-strings;  and  then  he 
ran  toward  home.  Just  as  he  came  to  the  brook  he 
heard  some  strange  sounds,  and  climbed  up  into  a 
hemlock-tree  which  overhung  the  brook,  to  hide  out  of 
sight,  and  to  look  about.  He  lay  along  a  branch  listen 
ing,  and  presently  saw  Nathaniel,  with  the  work-bag 
around  his  neck,  hurrying  toward  the  brook,  leading 
little  Polly,  and  was  just*  going  to  call  out,  when  he 


THE   STORY  OF   FLORIXDA.  129 

caught  sight  of  three  Indians,  standing  behind  some 
trees  on  the  other  side,  watching  the  two  children. 
Little  Polly  was  afraid  to  step  on  the  ice.  She  cried ; 
and  at  last  Nathaniel  made  her  sit  down  and  take  hold 
of  a  stick,  and  he  pulled  her  across  l)y  it.  Philip  moved 
a  little  to  see  better,  and  by  doing  this  lost  sight  of 
them  a  moment ;  and,  when  he  looked  again,  they  were 
both  gone.  lie  heard  a  crackling  in  the  bushes,  and 
caught  sight  of  little  Polly's  blanket  flying  through  the 
woods,  and  knew  then  that  those  Indians  had  carried 
off  Nathaniel  and  little  Polly  ;  and,  without  stopping  to 
consider,  he  jumped  down  and  followed  on,  thinking,  as 
he  afterward  said,  to  find  out  where  they  went,  and  tell 
his  father.  Philip  was  a  plucky  fellow,  as  }'ou  will  find 
presently,  His  pluck  brought  him  into  danger,  though  ; 
and,  if  it  had  not  been  for  an  Indian  woman  of  the 
name  of  Acushnin,  he  might  have  lost  his  life  in  a  very 
cruel  way.  This  woman,  Acushnin,  lived  in  a  white 
family  when  a  child.  She  had  a  son  about  the  age  of 
Philip.  It  was  perhaps  on  account  of  both  these  rea 
sons  that  she  felt  inclined  to  save  him.  But  I  must 
not  get  so  far  ahead  of  my  story. 

"  Philip,  by  one  way  or  another,  kept  on  the  trail  of 
those  Indians  the  whole  day.  Once  it  was  by  finding 
the  stick  that  little  Polly  dropped  ;  once  it  was  by 
seeing  a  shred  of  her  blanket ;  another  time  it  was  by 
coming  across  a  butcher-knife  the  Indians  had  stolen 
from  some  house :  and  he  had  wit  enough  to  break  a 
limb  or  gash  a  tree  now  and  then,  so  as  to  find  his  way 
back  ;  also  to  take  the  bearings  of  the  hills.  When  the 
Indians  halted  to  rest,  he  had  a  chance  to  rest  too. 

"At  last  they  stopped  for  the  night  in  a  sheltered 


130  THE   STOKY   OF   FLORINDA. 

valley  where  there  were  two  or  three  wigwams.  He 
watched  them  go  into  one  of  these,  and  then  he  could 
not  think  what  to  do  next.  The  night  was  setting  in 
bitter  cold.  The  shoe  he  took  the  string  from  had 
come  off  in  his  running ;  and  that  foot  was  nearly 
frozen,  and  would  have  been  quite  if  he  had  not  tied 
some  moss  to  the  bottom  of  it  with  his  pocket-hand 
kerchief.  The  hand  that  had  no  mitten  wTas  frozen.  He 
had  eaten  nothing  but  a  few  boxberry-plums  and  box- 
beriy-leaves.  It  was  too  late  to  think  of  finding  his 
way  home  that  night.  He  lay  down  on  the  snow  ;  and, 
as  the  Indians  lifted  the  mats  to  pass  in  and  out,  he 
could  see  fires  burning,  and  smell  meats  cooking.  Then 
lie  began  to  feel  sleepy,  and,  after  that,  knew  nothing 
more  till  he  woke  inside  of  a  wigwam,  and  found  two 
Indian  women  rubbing  him  with  snow.  They  after 
wards  gave  him  plenty  to  eat.  He  did  not  see  Na 
thaniel  and  little  Polly :  they  were  in  another  wigwam. 
There  were  two  Indians  squatting  on  the  floor,  one 
of  them  quite  old.  Pretty  soon  another  came  in ; 
and  Philip  knew  he  was  one  of  those  that  carried  off 
the  children,  because  he  had  Florinda's  work-bag  hang 
ing  around  his  neck.  He  thought,  no  doubt,  from  see 
ing  it  on  Nathaniel's  neck,  that  there  was  the  place  to 
wear  it.  Philip  suffered  dreadful  pain  in  his  foot  and 
hand,  but  shut  his  mouth  tight,  for  fear  he  might  groan. 
He  said  afterward,  when  questioned  about  this  part  of 
his  story,  that  lie  was  not  going  to  let  them  hear  a  white 
bo}^  groan. 

' '  It  was  probably  from  seeing  him  so  courageous 
that  they  decided  to  offer  him  to  their  chiefs  wife 
for  adoption.  It  was  a  custom  among  them,  when  a 


THE   STORY   OF   FLOEINDA.  131 

chief's  wife  lost  a  male  child  by  death,  to  offer  her 
another,  usually  a  captive  taken  in  war,  for  adoption. 
If,  after  seeing  the  child  offered  in  this  way,  she  re 
fused  to  adopt  him,  he  was  not  suffered  to  live. 

"  Now,  one  of  those  two  squaws  in  the  wigwam,  the 
older  one,  was  the  Acuslinin  I  spoke  of  just  now  ;  and 
she  felt  inclined  to  save  Philip  from  being  carried  to 
Sogonuck,  which  was  where  the  chief  lived :  so  next 
morning  before  light,  when  the  Indians  all  went  off 
hunting,  she  sent  the  other  squaw  out  on  some  errand, 
and  then  told  Philip  in  broken  English  what  was  going 
to  be  done  with  him,  and  that  it  would  be  done  in  two 
days  ;  and  told  him  in  a  very  earnest  manner,  partly  by 
signs,  that  he  must  run  away  that  very  morning.  She 
bound  up  his  foot ;  she  gave  him  a  moccasin  to  wear  on 
it ;  she  gave  him  a  bag  of  pounded  corn  and  a  few  strips 
of  meat.  Philip  had  found  out  that  the  Indians  sup 
posed  him  to  be  a  captive  escaped  from  another  party  ; 
and  he  thought  it  would  be  better  not  to  mention  Nathan 
iel  and  little  Poll}',  but  to  get  home  as  quick  as  he 
could,  and  tell  people  where  the}'  were. 

"  When  the  young  squaw  came  in,  the  old  one  set 
her  at  work  parching  corn,  with  her  back  to  the  door ; 
then  made  signs  to  Philip,  and  he  crept  out  and  ran. 
After  running  a  few  rods,  he  came  unexpectedly  upon  a 
wigwam :  this  made  his  heart  beat  so  that  he  could 
hardly  breathe.  There  was  a  noise  of  some  one  pound 
ing  corn  inside ;  and,  when  that  stopped,  he  stopped ; 
and,  when  that  went  on,  he  went  on,  and  so  crept  by. 

"As  soon  as  it  began  to  grow  light,  he  kept  along 
without  much  trouble,  partly  by  means  of  the  signs  on 
the  trees :  but  as  he  got  farther  on,  there  being  fewer 


132  THE   STOEY   OF   FLOHINDA. 

of  these  signs  (because  they  came  so  swift  that  part  of 
the  way),  he  took  the  wrong  course,  — very  luckily,  as 
it  proved  ;  for  by  doing  so  he  fell  in  with  two  men  on 
horseback,  and  one  of  these  earned  him  home. 

44  As  they  came  near  the  house,  Philip  saw  by  the 
chimney  smoke  that  there  was  some  one  inside,  and 
began  to  whistle  a  certain  tune. 

"  Up  to  this  'time,  Mr.  Bowen  had  not  been  able  to 
shed  a  tear ;  but,  the  moment  he  heard  that  familiar 
whistle,  he  fell  down  on  the  floor,  and  cried  like  a  little 
child. 

"Florinda  seemed  dull,  stupid,  indifferent,  and  scarce 
ly  noticed  Philip  at  all.  It  was  found  that  she  had  no 
clear  recollection  of  any  thing  that  took  place  after 
Mr.  Bowen's  going  to  meet  the  council.  Indeed,  even 
after  she  was  her  own  self  again,  she  never  could  wholly 
recall  the  events  of  those  few  days  ;  which  was,  perhaps, 
quite  as  well  for  her." 

' '  And  did  those  two  ever  get  found  ?  ' '  asked  a  small 
listener. 

"Yes.  Philip  described  the  place;  and  that  very 
night  a  party  was  sent  out,  which  captured  the  Indians, 
and  brought  back  Nathaniel  and  little  Polly." 

"And  the  work-bag,  and  the  papers,  and  the  tea 
spoons  ? ' ' 

"  Yes,  all.  Florinda  had  half  the  teaspoons.  She 
was  married,  not  many  years  after  all  this  happened, 
to  David  Palmer ;  and  Mr.  Bowen  gave  them  to  her 
for  a  wedding-present.  Mr.  Bowen  did  a  great  deal 
for  Florinda,  as  well  he  might.  One  of  those  spoons 
has  come  down  in  the  Palmer  family,  and  is  now  owned 
by  Mr.  Thomas  Palmer  of  DermotviUe. 


THE   STORY   OF   FLOBINDA.  133 

"  And  here  is  one  of  those  that  Mr.  Bowen  kept," 
continued  the  old  lady,  going  to  a  corner  cupboard,  and 
holding  up  a  small,  thin,  slim  teaspoon,  veiy  oval  in 
the  bowl,  and  very  pointed  at  the  handle.  "  This  was 
given  to  your  grandfather's  grandfather's  grandfather 
by  Mr.  Nathaniel  Bowen  himself.  Nathaniel  Bowen 
was  your  ancestor.  Your  grandfather's  grandfather's 
grandfather  remembered  him  \cry  well,  as  I  told  3*011 
at  the  beginning.  You  may  be  sure  that  this  story  is 
eveiy  word  true  ;  for  the  Palmer  family  have  it  in  writ 
ing^  copied  from  the  account  which  David  Palmer  wrote 
down  at  the  time  it  happened." 


THE  HOUSE  THAT  JACK  BUILT. 


OH  !  Jack  was  the  fellow  who  lived  long  ago, 
And  built  him  a  house,  as  you  very  well  know, 
With  chimneys  so  tall,  and  a  cupola  too, 
And  windows  set  thick,  where  the  light  could  go  through. 

And  this  is  the  house  that  Jack  built. 

'    % 

Now,  Jack  he  was  so  tender-hearted  and  true, 
He  loved  every  dear  little  childling  that  grew. 
"  The  old  folk  can  do  very  well  without  me, 
And  I'll  be  the  friend  of  the  children,"  quoth  he. 

So  away  in  his  store-room  he  stored  up  a  heap 
Of  corn-bags  well  filled,  full  seven  yards  deep  ; 
While  ranged  very  near  them,  in  beautiful  show, 
Were  a  great  many  corn-poppers,  set  in  a  row. 

And  this  is  the  corn  that  lay  in  the  house  that 
Jack  built. 

* 

And  a  blazing  red  fire  was  ever  kept  glowing 
By  a  great  pair  of  bellows  that  ever  kept  blowing ; 
And  there  stood  the  children,  the  dear  little  souls ! 
A-shaking  their  corn-poppers  over  the  coals. 

134 


THE   HOUSE   THAT   JACK   BUILT.  137 

Soon  a  motherly  rat,  seeking  food  for  her  young, 
Came  prying  and  peeping  the  corn-bags  among. 
"I'll  take  home  a  supply,''  said  this  kindest  of  mothers  : 
44  My  children  like  corn  quite  as  well  as  those  others." 
And  this  is  the  rat,  &c. 

Run  quick,  Mother  Rat !     Oh,  if  you  but  knew 

How  slyly  old  Tabb}T  is  watching  for  you  ! 

She's  creeping  so  softly  !  pra}T,  pray  do  not  wait ! 

She  springs  !    she  has  grabbed  you  !  — ah,  now  'tis  too  * 

late! 
And  this  is  the  cat,  &c. 


\ 


THE  CAT  THAT  CAUGHT  THE  RAT. 

Too  late  !  yes,  too  late  !     All  your  struggles  are  vain 
You  never  will  see  those  dear  children  again  ! 
All  sadly  they  sit  in  their  desolate  home, 
Looking  out  for  the  mother  that  never  will  come. 


138 


THE   HOUSE   THAT    JACK   BUILT. 


When  Pussy  had  finished,  she  said  with  a  smile, 
"  I  think  I  will  walk  in  the  garden  a  while, 
And  there  take  a  nap  in  some  sunshiny  spot." 
Bose  laughed  to  himself  as  he  said,  "  I  think  not !  " 

Just  as  Puss  shuts  her  eyelids,  oh  !  what  does  she  hear? 
"  Bow-wow  !  "  and  "Bow-wow  !  "  very  close  at  her  ear. 
Now  away  up  a  pole,  all  trembling,  she  springs  ; 
And  there  on  its  top,  all  trembling,  she  clings. 
And  this  is  the  dog,  &c. 

Said  Bose  to  himself,  ' '  What  a  great  dog  am  I ! 
When  my  voice  is  heard,  who  dares  to  come  nigh? 
Now  I'll  worry  that  cow.     Ha,  ha,  ha  !     Oh,  if  she 
Should  run  up  a  pole,  how  funny  'twould  be  !  " 


Poor  Bose  !     You  will  wish  that  you'd  never  been  born 
When  you  bark  at  that  cow  with  the  crumpled  horn. 
'Way  you  go,  with  a  toss,  high  up  in  the  air ! 
Do  you  like  it,  old  Bose  ?     Is  it  pleasant  up  there  ? 
And  this  is  the  cow,  &c. 


THE   HOUSE   THAT   JACK   BUILT.  139 

Now,  when  this  old  Moolly,  so  famous  in  story, 
Left  Bose  on  the  ground,  all  bereft  of  his  glory, 
She  walked  to  the  valley  as  fast  as  she  could, 
Where  a  dear  little  maid  with  a  milking-pail  stood. 
And  this  is  the  maiden,  &c. 


THE  COW  WITH  THE  CRUMPLED  HORN. 

Alas  !  a  maiden  all  forlorn  was  she, 

Woful  and  sad,  and  piteous  to  see. 

With  weary  step  she  walked,  and  many  a  sigh : 

Her  -cheek  was  pale  ;  a  tear  bedimmed  her  eye. 

She  sat  her  down  with  melancholy  air 

Among  the  flowers  that  bloomed  so  sweetly  there, 

And  thus  with  clasped  hands  she  made  her  moan : 

"  Ah  me  !  "  she  said  ;  "  ah  me  !  I'm  all  alone  ! 


,140  THE   HOUSE   THAT    JACK   BUILT. 

4 


THE   MAIDEN  ALL   FORLOKN. 

In  all  the  world  are  none  who  care  for  me  ; 
In  all  the  world  are  none  I  care  to  see ; 


THE  HOUSE   THAT   JACK  BUILT.  141 

No  one  to  me  a  kindly  message  brings  ; 
Nobod}7  gives  me  any  pretty  things  ; 
Nobody  asks  me  am  I  sick  or  well ; 
Nobody  listens  when  I've  aught  to  tell ; 
Kind  words  of  love  I've  never,  never  known  : 
Ah  me  !  "  she  said,  "  'tis  sad  to  be  alone  !  " 

Now  up  jumps  the  man  all  tattered  and  torn, 
And  he  says  to  the  maiden,  "  Don't  sit  there  forlorn. 
Behind  this  wild  rose-bush  I've  heard  all  you  said ; 
And  I'll  love  and  protect  you,  you- dear  little  maid ! 
For  oft  have  I  hid  there,  so  bashful  and  shy, 
And  peeped  through  the  roses  to  see  you  go  by : 
I  know  every  look  of  those  features  so  fair ; 
I  know  ever}r  curl  of  }~our  bright  golden  hair. 
My  garments  are  in  bad  condition,  no  doubt ; 
But  the  love  that  I  give  you  shall  never  wear  out. 
Now,  I'll  be  the  husband,  if  you'll  be  the  wife  ; 
And  together  we'll  live  without  trouble  or  strife." 
And  this  is  the  man,  &c. 

Thought  the  maid  to  herself,  "Oh,  what  beautiful  words  ! 
Sweeter  than  music,  or  singing  of  birds. 
How  pleasant  'twill  be  thus  to  live  all  my  life 
With  this  kind  little  man,  without  trouble  or  strife  ! 
If  his  clothes  are  all  tattered  and  torn, — why,  'tis  plain 
What  he  needs  is  a  wife  that  can  mend  them  again. 
And  he  brought  them  to  such  sorry  plight,  it  may  be, 
'Mong   the   thorns  of  the   roses    while   watching    for 
me!  " 

And,  when  this  wise  maiden  looked  up  in  his  face, 
She  saw  there  a  look  full  of  sweetness  and  grace. 


142 


THE   HOUSE   THAT    JACK   BUILT. 


THE  MAN  ALL   TATTERED   AND   TORN. 

'Twas  a  truth-telling  face.    "  Yes,  I'll  trust  you,"  said 

she. 

"Ah,  a  kiss  I  must  take,  if -you  trust  me  !  "  quoth  he  ; 
"  And,  since  we're  so  happily  both  of  a  mind, 
We'll  set  off  together  the  priest  for  to  find." 


THE  HOUSE  THAT   JACK  BUILT.  143 

Now  hand  in  hand  along  they  pass, 

Tripping  it  lightly  over  the  grass, 

By  pleasant  ways,  through  fields  of  flowers, 

By  shady  lanes,  through  greenwood  bowers. 

The  bright  little  leaves  they  dance  in  the  breeze, 

And  the  birds  sing  merrily  up  in  the  trees. 

The  maiden  smiles  as  they  onward  go, 

Forgotten  now  her  longing  and  woe  ; 

And  the  good  little  man  he  does  care  for  her  so ! 

He  cheers  the  way  with  his  pleasant  talk , 

Finds  the  softest  paths  where  her  feet  may  walk, 

Staj's  her  to  rest  in  the  sheltered  nook, 

Guides  her  carefully  over  the  brook, 

Lifts  her  tenderly  over  the  stile, 

Speaking  so  cheerity  all  the  while  ! 

And  plucks  the  prettiest  wild  flowers  there 

To  deck  the  curls  of  her  golden  hair. 

Sa}'S  the  joyful  maid,  u  Not  a  flower  that  grows 

Is  so  fair  for  me  as  the  sweet  wild  rose!  " 

Thus  journeying  on  by  greenwood  and  dell, 
They  came  at  last  where  the  priest-  did  dweh1,  — 
A  jolly  fat  priest,  as  I  have  heard  tell ; 
A  jolly  fat  priest,  all  shaven  and  shorn, 
With  a  long  black  cassock  so  jauntily  worn. 
And  this  is  the  priest,  &c. 

"  Good-morrow,  Sir  Priest !  will  you  many  us  two?  " 
"That  I  will,"  said  the  priest,  "if  ye're  both  lovers 

true. 

But  when,  little  man,  shall  your  wedding-day  be?  " 
"  To-morrow,  good  priest,  if  }TOU  can  agree  : 


144  THE   HOUSE   THAT   JACK  BUILT. 

At  the  sweet  hour  of  sunrise,  when  the  new  day 

Is  ros}r  and  fresh  in  its  morning  array, 

When  flowers  are  awaking,  and  birds  full  of  glee, 

At  the  top  of  the  morning,  our  wedding  shall  be. 

And,  since  friends  we  have  none,  for  this  wedding  of 

ours 

No  guests  shall  there  be,  save  the  birds  and  the  flowers  ; 
And  we'll  stand  out  among  them,  in  sight  of  them  all, 
Where  the  pink- and- white  blooms  of  the  apple-tree  fall." 

"  Od  zooks  !  "  cried  the  priest,  "  what  a  wedding  we'll 

see 
To-morrow,  at  sunrising,  under  the  tree  !  " 

Next  morning,  while  sleeping  his  sweetest  sleep, 

The  priest  was  aroused  from  his  slumbers  deep 

By  the  clarion  voice  of  chanticleer, 

Sudden  and  shrill,  from  the  apple-tree  near. 

"  Wake  up,  wake  up  !  "  it  seemed  to  say ; 

"  Wake  up,  wake  up  !  there's  a  wedding  to-day !  " 

And  this  is  the  cock  that  crowed  in  the  morn, 

That  waked  the  priest  all  shaven  and  shorn, 

That  married  the  man  all  tattered  and  torn, 

That  kissed  the  maiden  all  forlorn, 

That  milked  the  cow  with  the  crumpled  horn, 

That  tossed  the  dog,  that  worried  the  cat,  that  caught 

the  rat  that  ate  the  corn  that  lay  in  the  house  that 

Jack  built. 


A  LITTLE  GUESS-STORY, 


"(\  MOTHER,  lookup!— look  up  in  the  sky!  away, 
\J  '  wa — y  up  there  !    Oh !  isn't  a  kite  a  pretty  sight  ? 
Now  it  only  looks  like  a  speck  of  something.     I  wonder 
where  it  comes  from." 

"  Yes,  Nannie,  I  think  it  is  a  pretty  sight ;  and  no 
doubt  the  owner  of  it  thinks  so  too.  I  wish  we  could 
see  him.  Let's  guess  about  him:  what  do  you  say  to 
that?  Let's  play  we  could  follow  the  string  down, 
down,  down,  away  down  behind  yonder  hill,  till  we 
come  to  the  boy  at  the  other  end." 

"  Oh,  yes,  mother !  You  guess  about  him,  please." 
u  I  will  try,  Nannie.  Ah,  there  he  is  !  I've  found 
the  little  fellow !  He  lies  in  the  grass,  flat  on  his 
back,  paste  on  his  hands,  I  think,  and  on  his  trousers 
too.  The  buttercups  are  thick  about  him,  —  bright 
yellow  buttercups ;  but  the  dandelions  are  turning 
white." 

"  Why  do  you  shut  up  your  eyes,  mother?  " 

"Because  I  can  guess  prettier  things  with  my  eyes 

shut.      The   little  boy  holds   fast  to   his   kite-string. 

There's  a  row  of  lilac-bushes  near,  and  an  apple-tree  — 

a  beautiful  apple-tree  —  all  in  bloom ;  cherry-trees  and 

147 


148  A  LITTLE   GUESS-STOKY. 

* 

pear-trees  too,  white  as  snow.  I  wish  we  were  there, 
Nannie.  A  little  brook  goes  dancing  by  all  so  gayly  ! 
Happy  little  brook,  to  be  dancing  so  merrily  on  among 
the  flowers !  and  happy  little  boy,  to  be  lying  there 
listening  to  its  song,  and  smelling  the  apple-blossoms, 
with  the  south  wind  blowing  over  him !  The  clover- 
tops  and  the  cool  green  clover-leaves  come  close  to  his 
cheeks, — his  round,  rosy  cheeks;  and  there's  a  little 
buttercup  right  imder  his  chin,  seeing  for  itself  whether 
he  loves  butter  or  not." 

4 'And  does  he?" 

"Yes,  he  loves  butter.  And  now  he  has  picked  a 
dandelion-ball,  and  is  blowing  it  to  see  —  hold  fast  to 
your  string,  my  boy  !  —  to  see  if  his  mother  wants  him. 
Three  blows." 

4  'Do  they  all  blow  off  ?" 

"  No,  not  all :  a  few  stay  on." 

"  Then  she  doesn't  want  him." 

"No,  his  mother  doesn't  want  him  quite  yet.  He 
can  lie  there  a  little  while  longer,  and  watch  his  kite, 
and  smell  the  flowers,  and  hear  the  birds  sing.  I  wish 
I  were  a  little  boy  lying  in  the  grass." 

"  How  lovely  is  your  little  guess-boy,  mother?  " 

"  Oh  !  quite  lovely,  quite  lovely.  He  has  brown  wavy 
hair,  and  bright  eyes,  and  a  right  pleasant,  laughing 
face.  Two  cunning  pussy-flowers  come  close  down,  and 
tickle  his  ear.  — Be  careful,  little  guess-boy !  don't  let 
the  string  slip.  That  kite  is  too  good  to  lose.  Great 
pains  you  took  to  make  its  frame  light  and  smooth  and 
even ;  worked  hard  with  newspapers  and  paste ;  the 
tail  was  a  trouble  ;  the  bobs  got  tangled  :  but  that's  all 
over  now." 


A  LITTLE  GUESS-STOBY.  149 

• 

"  What  is  your  little  guess-boy's  name,  mother?  " 

"  His  name? — let  me  think.  Ah  !  his  name  is  Er 
nest.  Now  Ernest  turns  his  head ;  now  he  smiles ; 
now  he  whistles/' 

"  And  what  is  he  whistling  for?  " 

"  I  think,  his  dog.  Yes,  yes  !  there  he  comes,  —  a 
noble  shaggy  fellow,  leaping,  frisking,  bounding.  Er 
nest  calls, '  Ranger,  Ranger,  Ranger  !  here,  Ranger  !  ' 

"  How  noble  is  Ranger,  mother?  " 

"Very  noble.  Oh!  he's  a  splendid  fellow!  —  a 
knowing,  good-natured  fellow.  Now  he  comes  bound 
ing  .on.  The  boy  laughs,  and  lets  Ranger  lick  his  face 
all  over. 

"  c  Now  down!  '  he  says,  —  '  down.  Ranger,  down, 
down,  sir  !  '  Good  dog :  he  lies  down  by  Ernest,  and 
winks  his  eyes,  and  snaps  at  the  flies  and  the  bumble 
bees." 

"  O  mother,  l^rhat  is  your  little  guess-boy  doing  to 
his  kite?  It  snakes;  it  pitches:  oh,  it  is  falling 
down  !  — blowing  away'!  " 

4 '  My  poor  little  boy !  Perhaps  a  bumble-bee  star 
tled  him :  it  flew  right  in  his  eye,  I've  no  doubt, 
and  made  him  let  go.  How  he  runs !  Too  late,  my 
boy  :  your  kite  is  gone,  and  will  never  return,  —  never, 
never !  " 

"  Where  has  it  gone,  mother?  " 

' '  Far,  far  over  the  woods :  now  it  falls  into  the 
river,  and  the  river  will  float  it  away  to  the  sea." 

"  Can  3'ou  sec  it  go  floating  along?  " 

u  Yes  :  it  floats  along  by  green  banks  where  willow- 
trees  are  growing." 

"  Please  don't  open  your  eyes  yet.  Can't  you  see 
some  little  guess- children  coming  to  pick  it  out?  " 


150  A  LITTLE  GUESS-STORY. 

"Perhaps  I  can.  Now  it  gets  tangled  in  the  roots  of 
a  tree ;  now  on  it  goes  again ;  now  it  stops  behind  a 
rock.  Yes,  there  are  some  little  guess-girls,  little  frol 
icking  guess-girls,  coming  to  the  bank  of  the  stream." 

"Do  they  see  it?" 

"  Yes  ;  but  they  can't  reach.  Take  care,  you  little 
thing  with  a  blue  dress  ruffled  round  the  bottom !  you 
are  bending  too  far  over.  Ha,  ha,  ha !  " 

"  What  are  you  laughing  at,  mother?  " 

"  Why,  there's  a  little  bareheaded  one  tugging  a  long 
bean-pole.  She'll  never  do  any  thing  with  that.  Now 
they  throw  stones.  One  hits  ;  another  hits.  There 
goes  the  kite ;  and  there  goes  the  bean-pole ;  and 
there  — dear,  dear !  — no  ;  but  she  did  almost  tumble  in. 
On,  on  floats  the  kite,  —  on  to  the  sea. 

"There's  a  little  boat  coming,  rowed  by  two  chil 
dren.  They  steer  for  that  odd  thing  which  floats  upon 
the  water.  i  What  is  it  ?  '  they  ask.  An  oar  is  reached 
out,  and  a  kite-frame  picked  up,  — nothing  but  a  frame  : 
the  paper  is  soaked  away." 

"  And  what  has  become  of  Ernest,  mother?  Is  he 
lying  down  there  now,  smelling  the  blossoms,  and  hear 
ing  the  brook  go?  " 

"  Ah,  yes,  poor  little  boy!  he  has  lain  down  again 
among  the  buttercups  ;  but  I  think  he  is  not  listening 
to  the  brook,  nor  smelling  the  apple-blossoms.  I  think 
he  is  crying.  His  head  is  turned  away,  and  his  face 
hidden  in  the  grass. 

"  Now  Ranger  comes  again,  but  not,  as  before,  leap 
ing  and  bounding ;  not  frisking,  and  wagging  his  lail. 
Oh,  no !  he  looks  quite  solemn  this  time.  Dogs  know 
a  great  deal.  Ranger  understands  that  something  bad 


A  LITTLE  GUESS-STORY.  151 

has  happened.  He  puts  his  head  close  down,  and  tries 
to  lick  the  boy's  face.  Now  he  gets  his  nose  close 
up  to  Ernest's  ear,  as  if  he  were  whispering  some 
thing.  What  is  he  whispering,  I  wonder.  Poor  Er 
nest  !  he  seems  very  sad ;  and  no  wonder.  Any  boy 
would  to  lose  a  kite  like  that. 

"But  he  jumps  up;  he  smiles,  and  looks  almost 
happy.  Something  good  must  have  been  whispered  to 
him  either  by  Ranger  or  by  his  own  thoughts." 

"  What  was  it,  mother?  " 

"I  think  it  was,  '  Don't  cry  for  lost  kites;  don't 
cry  for  lost  kites !  Run  home  and  make  another;  run 
home  and  make  another  I ' 

"And  will  he?" 

"  I  think  so  :  I  think  he  will.  Yes,  there  he  goes  ! 
He  runs  through  the  grass,  leaps  the  brook,  springs 
over  the  fence,  whistling  to  Ranger  all  the  while.  Ran 
ger  is  so  glad,  he  barks  and  bounds  like  a  crazy  dog. 

"  There's  the  house;  and  there's  his  mother,  look 
ing  out  of  the  window,  very  glad  to  see  her  boy,  if 
some  of  the  dandelion  feathers  did  stay  on.  I  hope 
she'll  find  some  more  newspapers  for  him,  and  let  him 
make  more  paste  on  her  stove." 

"  O  mother  !  please  let's  go  take  a  walk  and  find  the 
little  guess-boy,  and  see  him  make  his  kite." 


THE  LITTLE  BEGGAR-GIRL. 


ONE  day,  when  uncle  Joe  could  think  of  no  story  to 
tell,  he  read  to  the  children  one  which  he  had  bor 
rowed  from  a  friend,  and  which  was  entitled  "  The  Little 
Beggar-Girl."  The  story  was  as  follows  :  — 

There  were  once  two  beggar-children,  named  Paul 
and  Nora.  Paul  was  ugly  and  cross ;  but  Nora  was 
so  sweet-tempered,  that  nothing  could  make  her  speak 
an  unkind  word.  She  had  beautiful  eyes,  and  her  hair 
was  of  a  golden  brown.  These  children  had  no  home, 
and  not  a  single  friend  in  the  world.  On  pleasant  nights 
they  slept  in  a  market-cart ;  but,  if  it  was  rainy,  they 
crept  underneath.  It  was  their  business  to  wander 
about  the  cuy,  begging  whatever  they  could. 

One  day  Paul  found  an  old  basket  with  the  handle 
gone.  "Now,"  said  he,  "  we  will  go  into  the  bone 
business.". 

"And  then  won't  you  beat  me  any  more?"  said 
Nora. 

"Not  if  you  mind  me,"  said  Paul,  "  and  beg  some 
thing  nice  for  me  every  day.  What  have  you  got 
there?" 

Nora  showed  him  some  bits  of  bread  and  dry  cake,  a 
152 


THE  LITTLE  BEGGAlt-GLKL. 


153 


THE  LITTLE  BEGGAK-GLRL.  155 

chicken-bone,  and  a  bunch  of  grapes,  which  an  old 
gentleman  had  given  her  because  her  eyelashes  were 
like  those  of  his  dear  little  grandchild  who  had  died 
years  before. 

"Why  didn't  you  get  more  grapes?"  said  Paul. 
"  I  could  eat  twenty  times  as  many.  Here,  you  may 
have  three,  and  the  whole  of  that  chicken-bone." 

Nora  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck,  and  said,  "  O 
Paul,  how  good  it  is  to  have  a  brother !  If  I  didn't 
have  3Tou,  I  shouldn't  have  an}'body." 

That  night  they  crept  under  the  cart ;  for  it  was  rainy. 
But  first  they  covered  the  ground  with  some  old  straw. 
"  How  good  it  is  to  have  a  cart  over  us,"  said  Nora, 
"and  straw  to  sleep  on!"  But  Paul  bade  her  stop 
talking  ;  for  he  was  tired. 

After  he  was  asleep,  Nora  crept  out  to  pay  a  visit  to 
her  window.  She  called  it  her  window.  It  was  on  the 
back-piazza  of  a  nice  house.  The  curtains  hung  apart 
a  little,  leaving  a  crack ;  and  every  night  she  paid  a 
visit  here  to  watch  the  undressing  and  putting  to  bed 
of  a  little  girl. 

She  could  see  the  laughing  face  as  it  peeped  through 
the  long,  white  night-gown,  and  the  rosy  toes  as  they 
came  out  of  thefr  stockings.  She  could  see  the  little 
girl's  arms  holding  tight  around  the  mother's  neck, 
and  the  mother's  arms  holding  tight  her  little  girl.  She 
could  also  both  see  and  hear  the  kisses  ;  and,  by  putting 
her  ear  close  to  the  window,  could  sometimes  catch  the 
very  words  of  the  evening  hymn.  Nothing  seemed  to 
her  half  as  beautiful  as  this  ;  for  it  was  the  only  singing 
of  that  kind  she  had  ever  heard. 

But  on  this  particular  night  she  dared  not  stay  long 


156  THE   LITTLE   BEGGAR-GIRL. 

at  the  window  ;  for  Paul  had  said  they  must  start  out  of 
the  city  by  daybreak  to  look  for  bones,  and  had  bade  her 
go  to  sleep  early.  She  only  waited  to  see  the  little  girl's 
hair  brushed,  and  then  to  see  her  spat  the  water  about 
in  the  wash-bowl. 

After  creeping  under  the  cart,  where  Paul  was  sleep 
ing,  she  put  out  her  hands  to  catch  the  rain-drops,  and 
washed  her  face.  Molly  the  rag-picker  had  given  her 
an  old  comb  she  had  found  in  a  dirt-barrel,  and  a  faded 
handkerchief.  For  these  she  had  given  a  bit  of  cake. 
To  be  sure,  the  cake  was  dry,  and  required  a  stone  to 
break  it ;  but  it  contained  two  plums  ;  and,  when  Molly 
made  the  trade,  she  was  thinking  of  her  little  lame  boy 
at  home.  And  so  Nora  sat  up  in  the  straw,  and  combed 
out  her  pretty  hair.  It  was  long  (for  there  was  no  one 
to  cut  it) ,  and  of  a  most  lovely  color.  To  tell  the  truth, 
there  was  not  a  child  in  all  the  street  whose  hair  was 
half  as  beautiful. 

"I  cannot  be  undressed,"  she  thought,  "because  I 
have  no  night-clothes  ;  and  I  cannot  be  kissed  or  sung 
to  sleep,  because  I  have  only  Paul.  And  Paul  —  he 
couldn't ;  oh,  no  !  Paul  doesn't  know  the  way  ;  but  I 
can  do  this." 

And,  while  thinking  such  thoughts  as  these,  she 
combed  out  her  long  hair  just  as  she  had  seen  the  little 
girl's  mother  do  ;  and,  by  t3~ing  thp  three-cornered  hand 
kerchief  under  her  chin,  she  kept  it  smooth. 

The  next  morning  they  set  forth  at  sunrise  to  search 
for  bones,  swinging  the  basket  between  them. 

' '  How  bright  the  sun  shines  ! ' '  said  Nora  :  ' '  now 
our  olothes  will  dry."  And,  when  they  were  out  of  the 
city,  she  said,  "No  matter  for  shoes  now,  Paul,  the  grass 
is  so  soft." 


THE   LITTLE   BEGGAR-GIRL.  157 

"You  are  always  being  pleased  about  something," 
said  Paul.  ' '  Anybody  would  think  you  had  every  thing 
you  want." 

Nora  was  still  for  a  moment ;  and  then  she  said,  "Oh, 
no,  Paul !  I  want  one  thing  a  great  deal :  I  think 
about^it  every  night  and  every  day." 

' '  What  is  it  ?  "  said  Paul.   ' '  Can't  you  beg  for  one  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  she,  "  I  couldn't." 

"Why  don't  you  tell?  "  said  Paul,  speaking  crossly. 

"  I  don't  like  to  say  it,"  said  Nora. 

"  Teh1,"  said  Paul,  giving  her  a  push,  "or  I'll  strike 
you." 

Nora  crept  up  close  to  him,  and  whispered,  "  I  want 
somebody  to  call  me  darling." 

"You're  a  ninny,"  said  Paul:  "you  don't  know 
any  thing.  I'll  call  you  darling.  Darling,  hold  up  the 
basket." 

"  But  that  isn't  real,"  said  Nora  :  "  you  don't  know 
the  right  way  ;  and  the  darling  isn't  in  your  eyes,  — not 
at  all.  Yesterday  I  met  a  little  girl,  —  as  little  as 
I.  Her  shoes  were  pretty,  and  a  kind  lady  was  walk 
ing  with  her ;  and,  when  they  came  to  a  crossing,  the 
lady  said,  '  Come  this  way,  my  darling  ; '  and  it  was  in 
her  eyes.  You  couldn't  learn  to  say  it  right,  Paul ;  for 
you  are  only  a  brother,  and  can't  speak  so  softly. 
Did  we  two  have  a  mother  ever,  Paul?" 

"  To  be  sure  we  did  ! ' '  said  Paul :  ' '  she  used  to  rock 
you  in  the  cradle,  and  tell  me  stories.  I  wasn't  but 
four  then  :  now  I'm  eight,  and  most  nine." 

"Was  she  like  Molly?"  asked  Nora. 

"  Not  a  bit!  her  face  was  white,  and  so  were  her 
hands,  — jolly  white.  She  used  to  cry,  and  sew  lace." 


158  THE  LITTLE  BEGGAR-GIRL. 

« '  Cry  ?  —  a  mother  cry  ?    What  for  ?  ' ' 

"  Can't  say  ;  hungry,  maybe.  Sometimes  father  hit 
her.  But  stop  talking,  can't  }TOU?  I  want  to  run  down 
this  hill:  catch  hold." 

As  they  were  walking  along  the  road,  at  the  bottom 
of  the  hill,  breathing  fast  from  running  so  thard, 
they  met  a  wicked-looking  man,  whose  whiskers  were 
black  and  very  heavy.  His  nose  was  long,  and  hooked 
over  at  the  end.  He  had  a  short-waisted  coat  with  a 
peaked  tail.  He  laughed  almost  every  time  he  spoke. 

When  he  saw  Paul  and  Nora,  he  said,  "  Where  are 
you  going,  children?  —  going  to  take  a  walk?  He, 
he,  he!" 

"  To  pick  up  bones,"  said  Paul.  "I  know  a  man 
that  buys  them." 

"  I'll  buy  your  bones,"  said  the  man,  "  and  give  you 
a  good  price  for  them.  My  shop  is  in  this  yellow 
brick  house.  Come  this  evening ;  come  about  eight ; 
come  to  the  back-door.  Is  this  your  little  sister  ?  ' ' 

"Yes."  said  Paul. 

"  Well,  bring  your  sister.  I  like  your  little  sister. 
He,  he,  he!  Good-morning,  and  good-luck  to  you." 
Then  he  patted  Nora's  head,  and  went  away,  laughing, 
"He,  he,  he!" 

It  was  hard  work  for  Nora,  walking  far  out  of  town, 
and  climbing  fences,  looking  for  bones  which  had  been 
thrown  out,  or  hidden  by  dogs ;  and  many  times  they 
were  driven  away  by  cross  servants. 

11  It's  all  your  fault,"  said  Paul.  " You  are  always 
peeping  in  at  windows.  If  you  don't  stop  it,  I'll  strike 
you." 


THE   LITTLE   BEGGAR-GIRL.  159 

"  I  only  want  to  see  what  the  little  girls  do,"  said 
Nora.  "  They  go  up  the  steps,  and  the  door  shuts; 
and  then,  when  I  can't  see  them  any  more, — then 
what  do  they  do,  Paul?" 

"How  should  I  know?"  said  Paul.  "Can't  you 
stop  talking,  and  give  me  something  to  eat?  What 
have  you  got  ?  ' ' 

Nora  showed  him  all  her  broken  bits,  and  then  untied 
the  corner  of  her  handkerchief.  There  were  a  few  pen 
nies  tied  up  there,  given  her  by  a  lady  who  was  pleased 
with  her  pleasant  face.  "  What  shall  we  do  with  these, 
Paul?"  said  she. 

"  Well,"  said  Paul,  "  I  think— I  think  I'U  buy  a 
cigar.  I  never  had  a  cigar." 

"  To  be  sure  ! ' '  said  Nora  :  "a  boy  ought  to  have 
a  cigar." 

And,  while  Paul  smoked  his  cigar,  she  sat  upon  a 
stone  near  by,  watching  the  smoke.  He  leaned  back 
against  a  tree,  puffing  away,  with  his  feet  crossed  high 
up  on  a  rock.  Nora  was  so  pleased  ! 

"  How  glad  I  am  I've  got  you  !  "  said  she.  "  If  I 
didn't  have  you,  I  shouldn't  have  anybody.  When  I 
grow  up,  maybe  I'll  be  your  mother,  and  give  you  good 
things." 

"  You're  a  little  fool !  "  said  Paul.  "  Stop  your  talk 
now,  and  go  look  for  more  bones.  There's  no  need  of 
both  of  us  sitting  idle." 

"  Oh,  my  feet  ache  so  !  "  said  Nora.  But  she  minded 
Paul,  and  went  searching  about  till  he  called  her  to  go 
back  to  the  city. 

The  walk  back  was  so  tiresome,  that  Nora  almost 
dropped  down  from  weariness.  "  O  Paul!  "  said  she, 


160  THE   LITTLE   BEGGAK-GIEL. 

"  my  hands  are  too  little ;  and  they  are  sore,  and  my 
feet  are  too.  I  can't  hold  on.  Oh  !  it's  going,  Paul ! 
it's  going !  " 

Paul  gave  her  a  blow  across  the  shoulders.  ' '  There  ! ' ' 
said  he.  "  Let  that  basket  go  down  again,  will  you? 
Hurry  up  !  Who  wants  everybody  staring?'" 

Nora's  bare  feet  were  bleeding,  her  arms  ached,  and 
her  shoulders  smarted  where  his  hand  came  down. 
She  was  so  little  !  —  so  very  little  !  Poor  thing  !  she  did 
her  best. 

Upon  reaching  the  yellow  brick  house,  Paul  and  Nora 
walked  directly  in  at  the  back-door,  as  they  had  been 
told.  The  wicked-looking  man  came  to  meet  them, 
and  took  them  into  a  room  very  low  in  the  walls,  and 
hung  round  with  bird-cages.  In  these  cages  were 
canary-birds,  —  a  great  many  canary-birds  ;  also  Java 
sparrows  and  mocking-birds.  The  room  smelt  strong 
of  soap.  In  a  door  leading  to  the  next  apartment  there 
were  two  squares  of  glass  set :  through  this  small  win 
dow  they  could  see  a  man's  face,  tipped  a  little  back 
wards,  which  the  hand  of  another  man  was  covering 
with  soap-foam.  By  this  they  knew  it  must  be  a  bar 
ber's  shop. 

The  wicked-looking  man  took  Nora  by  the  hand,  and 
said,  as  he  placed  her  in  a  chair,  "  All  right,  my  little 
lady,  — he,  he,  he  !  All  right,  my  little  beauty  !  I  want 
to  cut  oif  your  hair." 

"Oh,  no!  oh,  no !  "  said  Nora;  and  she  covered 
her  head  with  both  hands. 

"  Oh,  yes  !  oh,  }~es  !  "  said  the  man.  "  I  won't  charge 
you  any  thing,  —  not  a  penny :  cheap  enough,  —  he,  he, 


THE   LITTLE   BEGGAR-GIRL.  161 

he !  "  The  wicked-looking  man  wanted  Nora's  beau 
tiful  hair  to  make  up  into  curls,  such  as  ladies  buy. 
He  came  close  up  with  his-  shears. 

"  Oh,  I  want  it,  I  want  it !  "  said  Nora,  beginning  to 
cry. 

"  Let  the  man  have  it,  can't  you?  "  said  Paul. 

"  Oh,  I  can't  let  him  !  I  can't,  I  can't !  "  said  Nora, 
sobbing. 

"  Why  not?  what's  the  use  of  it?  "  said  Paul. 

"Oh  !  "  said  Nora,  "  because  — because  —  I  like  it. 
And  I  have  no  boots,  and  no  night-clothes,  and  nobody 
to  lead  me  ;  and  so  —  and  so  —  I  want  it." 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do,"  said  the  man.  "  I'll 
give  you  something  for  it.  What  do  3-011  want  most  ? 
—  he,  he,  he  !  Think  now.  Isn't  there  any  thing  you 
want  most  ?  ' ' 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Nora;  for  she  remembered  what 
she  had  told  Paul  in  the  morning. 

"  Well,"  said  the  man,  "  I  thought  so.  What  is  it? 
Say." 

"  I  don't  like  to  speak  it,"  said  Nora. 

"Don't  like  to?     Why?" 

"Because,"  said  Nora,  sobbing,  "you  haven't — • 
it  seems  like  —  as  if  you  couldn't." 

Paul  burst  out  laughing.  "  She  wants  somebody  to 
call  her  darling,"  said  he. 

"To  call  her  what?" 

"To  call  her  darling."  And  then  he  burst  out 
laughing  again ;  and  the  man  raised  both  hands,  and 
put  up  his  shoulders,  and  burst  out  laughing,  and  they 
both  laughed  together.. 

At  last  the  man  took  a  walk  round  among  his  bird- 


162  THE   LITTLE   BEGGAR-GIRL. 

cages,  and  said,  "  Come,  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do  :  I'll 
give  you  a  bird.  If  you'll  give  me  your  hair,  I'll  give 
you  a  bird." 

c '  A  live  one  ?  ' '  asked  Nora. 

"  Yes,  a  live  one.  And,  besides  that,  your  hair  will 
grow  :  then  you  will  have  both." 

"  Will  it  sing?  "  asked  Nora. 

"When  he's  old  enough,"  said  the  man.  "And 
here's  a  little  basket  to  keep  him  in.  It  used  to  be  a 
strawberry-basket.  "I'll  put  some  wool  in  it.  It  looks 
like  a  bird's  nest.  I'll  hang  it  round  your  neck  with  this 
long  string.  There,  how  do  you  like  that  ? — he,  he,  he  !" 

He  hung  it  around  her  neck.  The  bird  looked  up 
into  her  face  with  its  bright  little  eyes.  Nora  put  down 
her  lips,  and  kissed  it.  Then  she  looked  up  at  the  man, 
and  said  faintly,  "  I  will." 

The  man  caught  up  his  great  shears,  and  in  less  than 
five  minutes  Nora's  hair  la}'  spread  out  upon  the  table. 
She  turned  away  from  it,  weeping. 

But  Paul  pulled  her  roughly  along ;  and  she  soon 
dried  her  tears  by  saying  over  to  herself,  ' '  It  will 
grow  ;  it  will  grow.  And  I  have  two  now,  —  the  bird 
and  Paul.  Before  I  had  but  one,  —  Paul:  now  two, 
—  Paul  and  the  bird,  the  bird  and  Paul,  — two." 

For  a  whole  week  after  this,  Nora  could  think  of 
nothing  but  her  bird.  It  was  lame.  The  man  had 
cheated  her :  he  had  given  her  a  bird  that  would  not 
sell.  But  Nora  loved  it  all  the  better  for  this.  She 
would  sit  on  the  curb-stone,  and  let  it  pick  crumbs  from 
her  mouth.  While  she  was  walking  about,  the  bird 
hung  from  her  neck  in  its  little  T^asket.  Nights,  she  let 
it  sleep  in  her  bosom. 


THE  LITTLE  BEGGAR-GIRL.  163 

Very  often,  ladies  and  gentlemen  passing  along  the 
street  would  stop  when  they  saw  her  feeding  her  bird. 
They  seemed  to  think  it  a  very  pretty  sight.  Or  if 
people  met  her  walking,  the  basket  hanging  around  her 
neck,  with  the  bird's  head  peeping  out,  they  would  turn 
and  say,  "Now,  isn't  that  cunning?  " 

But  one  day,  at  the  end  of  the  week,  Paul  came  from 
fighting  with  some  boys :  they  had  beaten  him,  and 
this  had  made  him  mad  and  cross.  Nora  had  begged 
nothing  very  nice  that  day.  He  called  her  lazy,  and 
came  behind,  as  she  was  feeding  her  bird,  and  knocked 
it  upon  the  pavement. 

"  There  !  "  said  he  :  "  now  you  will  do  something." 

The  bird  was  killed.  Nora  caught  it  to  her  bosom, 
and  sobbed  out,  "  O  Paul !  my  little  bird  !  O  Paul!  " 
Then  she  lay  down  upon  the  pavement,  and  cried 
aloud.  Paul  ran  off,  and  presently  a  policeman  came 
and  ordered  her  up. 

Nora  had  now  lost  her  only  comfort:  no,  not  her 
only  comfort ;  for  she  could  still  watch  the  little  girls 
walking  with  beautiful  ladies ;  and  could  still  listen, 
standing  upon  the  back-piazza,  to  the  singing  of  even 
ing  hymns.  And  one  day  she  discovered  something 
which  gave  her  great  joy. 

Without  knowing  that  she  could,  without  meaning  to 
try  to  sing,  she  herself  sang.  At  first  it  was  only  a 
faint,  humming  noise  :  but  she  started  with  pleasure  ; 
for  it  was  the  very  tune  in  which  the  lady  sang  hymns 
to  her  little  girl.  She  tried  again,  and  louder ;  then 
louder  still ;  and  at  last  cried  out,  "  O  Paul !  it's  just 
the  same  !  it's  just  the  same  !  I  didn't  think  I  could ! 
How  could  I,  Paul? — how  did  I  sing?  " 


164  THE  LITTLE  BEGGAE-GIEL. 

That  was  a  hard  summer  for  Nora.  They  had  to  go 
every  day  out  of  town :  and  wearisome  work  it  was, 
climbing  fences,  and 'walking  over  the  rough  ways; 
and  very  few  pennies  did  they  get. 

When  winter  came,  they  fared  still  worse.  Nora 
begged  a  few  clothes  for  herself  and  Paul ;  but  all  they 
could  get  were  not  enough  to  prevent  them  from  suffer 
ing  with  cold.  On  nights  when  they  had  not  even  a  penny 
apiece  to  pay  for  a  place  on  the  floor  in  some  filthy  gar 
ret  or  cellar,  they  piled  up  what  old  straw  the  cartmen 
would  give  them,  and  crept  under  that,  in  the  best  place 
they  could  find. 

One  very  cold  evening,  when  the}7  had  no  shelter,  Paul 
said,  "  Now  to-night  we  shall  surely  freeze  to  death." 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  said  Nora  :  "  I  know  where  there  are  such 
heaps  of  straw  !  A  man  came  and  emptied  a  whole  bed- 
ful  on  a  vacant  lot  just  back  of  a  church." 

And  when  it  grew  dark  they  brought  bundles  of  this 
straw,  and  made  a  bed  of  it  in  an  archway  under  the 
church. 

"  Now,  if  we  only  had  something  for  a  blanket!" 
said  Paul :  "  can't  you  beg  something  for  a  blanket?  " 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  said  Nora  ;  "  it  is  so  cold  !  Let  me  stay 
here." 

"  Go,  I  tell  you,"  said  Paul. 

"Oh!  I  don't  want  to  beg  in  the  evening,"  said 
Nora. 

"  You  shall  go,"  said  Paul ;  and  he  gave  her  a  push. 

Then,  as  he  grew  very  cross,  she  said,  "I'll  try, 
Paul,"  and  ran  off  in  the  dark. 

It  was  a  bitter  cold  night :  the  sharp  wind  cut  through 
her  thin  garments  like  a  knife.  Men  stamped  to  keep 


THE  LITTLE  BEGGAR-GIRL.  165 

their  feet  from  freezing.  Ladies  hid  their  faces  behind 
their  furs.  Scarcely  any  one  spoke  ;  but  all  went  hur 
rying  on,  eager  to  get  out  of  the  cold. 

' '  None  of  these  people  have  any  thing  to  give  me 
for  a  blanket,"  thought  little  Nora. 

She  ventured  to  beg  at  a  few  houses  :  but  the  servants 
shut  the  doors  in  her  face ;  and  she  could  hear  them 
answer  to  the  people  above  stairs,  "Only  a  beggar- 
girl." 

For  all  it  was  so  cold,  Nora  could  not  pass  the  win 
dow  of  the  back-piazza  without  looking  in  for  a  mo 
ment.  The  curtain  was  partly  drawn  aside.  No  one 
was  in  the  room ;  but  through  the  door  she  could  see 
another  larger  room,  brilliantly  lighted.  There  were 
wax  candles  burning,  and  a  bright  fire  was  blazing  in 
the  fireplace.  There  were  vases  of  flowers  upon  the 
table,  and  the  waUs  were  hung  with  large  pictures  in 
shining  gilt  frames.  Around  the  fire  many  people  were 
seated,  and  the  little  girl  was  there  kissing  them  all 
good-night.  Nora  could  see  them  catch  her  up  in  their 
arms.  One  gave  her  a  ride  on  his  foot,  another  gave 
her  a  toss  in  the  air,  and  one  made  believe  put  her  in 
his  pocket ;  and  to  every  one  the  little  girl  gave  a  kiss 
on  both  cheeks. 

Then  her  mother  led  her  into  the  room  where  Nora 
had  so  many  times  watched  the  going  to  bed  ;  and  Nora 
saw,  as  she  had  often  seen  before,  the  white  shoulders 
catch  kisses  when  the  dress  slipped  off,  then  the  bright 
face  peep  through  the  night-gown  and  catch  a  kiss,  and 
the  little  rosy  feet  put  up  to  have  their  toes  counted. 
Then  there  were  huggings,  and  showers  of  kisses  ;  and 
the  little  girl  was  laid  in  her  crib,  and  blankets  tucked 
close  about  her. 


166  THE   LITTLE  BEGGAE-GIKL. 

Next  came  the  evening  hymn,  which  the  mother  sang, 
sitting  by  the  crib.  Poor  little  Nora  was  almost  be 
numbed  with  cold ;  but  this  singing  was  so  sweet,  she 
must  stop  just  a  few  moments  longer.  Wrapping  her 
thin  shawl  tightly  about  her,  she  stood  bending  over,  her 
ear  close  to  the  window,  that  not  a  note  might  be  lost. 

And  soon,  almost  without  knowing  it,  she,  too,  was 
singing.  But,  as  Nora  had  never  learned  any  Irymns, 
she  could  only  sing  what  was  in  her  mind  :  ' '  Nora  is 
cold ;  Nora  has  no  blanket ;  Nora  cannot  kiss  any 
mother." 

She  sang  very  softly  at  first ;  but  her  voice  would 
come  out.  It  grew  louder  every  moment ;  and  this  so 
delighted  her,  that  she  forgot  where  she  was,  forgot 
the  cold,  forgot  every  thing  except  the  joy  of  the  music. 
And,  when  the  tune  ran  high,  her  voice  rang  out  so  loud 
and  clear,  that  a  policeman  came  toward  the  gate  ;  and 
then  Nora  was  frightened,  and  ran  away.  She  ran  back 
to  the  place  where  Paul  was  lying.  He  was  asleep  now. 
She  crept  in  among  the  straw,  and  sat  there  shivering, 
looking  up  at  the  stars.  She  looked  up  at  the  stars  : 
but  she  was  thinking  of  the  good-night  kisses  in  the 
lighted  room  around  the  fireside,  and  of  the  little  girl 
lying  asleep  in  her  crib,  with  the  loving  mother  watch 
ing  near  ;  and  the  more  these  pleasant  thoughts  passed 
through  her  mind,  the  more  lonely  and  sorrowful  she 
felt,  " 

"  O  Paul!  "  she  whispered,  "  if  I  didn't  have  you, 
I  shouldn't  have  anybody  in  the  world.  Good-night, 
Paul."  She  put  her  arms  softly  around  him,  stroked  his 
hair,  and  then  tucked  her  thin  shawl  closely  about  him, 
just  as  the  lady  had  tucked  the  blankets  about  her  little 


THE  LITTLE  BEGGAH-GIBL.  167 

girl,  and  kissed  him.  "  Good-night,  Paul,"  she  whis 
pered  again. 

Then  she  leaned  her  head  upon  his  shoulder,  and  be 
gan  to  sing,  but  very  softly,  lest  some  one  should  hear. 
She  sang  of  the  blazing  fire,  of  the  candles  burning,  of 
the  flowers,  of  the  pictures,  of  the  undressing,  of  the 
kisses,-  of  the  sleeping  child,  and  then  of  other  little 
children  walking  in  the  streets,  led  by  beautiful  ladies. 

Then  it  seemed  as  if  she  herself  were  one  of  these 
little  girls.  In  her  dream,  she,  too,  was  dressed  in  gay 
clothes,  warmed  herself  by  glowing  fires,  or  was  led 
along  sunny  streets  by  a  gentle  lady:  and  all  the 
while  she  seemed  to  keep  on  singing ;  and  everybody 
—  the  loving  mothers  and  the  pretty  children  —  sang 
with  her,  until  the  whole  air  was  filled  with  music.  Her 
little  bird,  too,  seemed  to  be  there,  and  was  singing 
with  the  rest :  he  came  and  nestled  in  her  bosom. 

Then  in  this  beautiful  dream  she  found  herself  sitting 
alone,  clothed  in  white  garments,  in  the  midst  of  a  soft, 
silvery  light.  A  river  rolled  at  her  feet,  beyond  which 
hung,  like  a  veil,  a  thin,  shining  mist.  It  was  from  be 
hind  this  mist  that  the  light  was  shed  about  her.  Still 
the  music  kept  on,  but  far  more  loud  and  sweet.  It 
came  from  beyond  the  river ;  and  she  heard  a  voice  in 
'the  air,  saj-ing,  "Come  and  sing  with  the  angel-chil 
dren." 

Then  she  arose,  and  stood  gazing  like  a  lost  child,  not 
knowing  how  to  cross  the  stream.  But  instantly  a 
smile  spread  over  her  face  ;  for  she  saw  standing  near, 
upon  a  bridge  of  flowers,  a  lady,  in  whose  face  were 
exceeding  beauty  and  sweetness.  She  stretched  forth 
to  Nora  her  hands,  saying  in  gentlest  tones,  "  Come 


168  THE  LITTLE  BEGGAR-GIRL. 

this  way,  my  darling."  And  Nora  trembled  with  joy, 
and  smiled  still  more  brightly ;  for  the  countenance  of 
the  lady  was  beaming  with  love,  and  the  darling  was 
in  her  eyes  as  she  clasped  to  her  bosom  her  own  dear 
little  child. 

At  early  dawn  a  policeman  found  Paul  lying  in  the 
straw  asleep ;  and  leaning  upon  his  shoulder  was  the 
face  of  his  little  sister,  stiff  and  cold  in  death.  But 
the  smile  of  joy  was  still  there,  and  was  witnessed  by 
hundreds  that  day ;  for  a  great  many  people  came  to 
see  the  little  frozen  beggar-girl  who  had  passed  from 
her  life  of  sorrow  with  so  sweet  a  smile. 

One  of  these  persons,  after  hearing  the  policemen, 
beggar-woman,  and  others  tell  what  they  knew  of 
Nora's  life,  took  one  long  look  at  her  face  as  she  lay 
there  like  a  child  smiling  in  its  sleep  ;  then  went  home 
and  wrote  the  above  story  of  the  Little  Beggar-Girl. 


WIDE-AWAKE. 


DA,  da,  da!  Don't  sing  "  By-lo  "  anymore,  nor 
rock  harder,  nor  tuck  in  the  blankets,  nor  cover 
my  eyes  up,  nor  pat,  nor  sh —  me  :  it  really  makes  me 
laugh ;  for  I'm  awake,  —  wide-awake  !  Shut  up  peep 
ers?  put  my  little  heddy  down?  —  not  a  bit.  Go  to 
s'eepy  ?  —  no,  I'm  going  to  waky  :  I  am  awaky  ;  I  see 
you  ;  I  see  red  curtains,  see  pictures,  see  great  doggy. 

Haven't  had  my  nap  out?  When  would  it  be  out? 
I  should  like  to  know  that ;  yes,  I  should  like  to  know 
when  a  baby's  nap  would  be  out.  Haven't  you  swept, 
and  watered  your  plants,  and  made  the  bed,  and  seen 
to  dinner,  and  taken  out  your  crimps,  and  more?  Pud 
ding? —  yes,  now  you  want  to  make  the  pudding,  and 
then  the  salad,  and  then  the  Washington  pie,  and  then 
run  out  a  minute.  I  know  :  don't  tell  me.  A  baby's 
nap  is  never  out,  never,  never,  so  long  as  any  thing  is 
to  be  done. 

But  I  am  awake,  and  I'm  coming  out  of  this  right 
off.  Drink  not  read}~? —  wiry  not?  I  ask  why  not, 
wiien  j'ou  knew  'twould  be  called  for?  But  no:  that 
must  be  left.  And  when  you  see  my  eyes  wide  open, 
and  me  pulling  myself  up  with  my  two  hands,  —  you  not 

169 


170  WIDE-  AWAKE. 

offering  to  help,  —  then  you  call  out,  ' '  Get  baby's  drink 
ready !  "  Who  knows  but  the  fire  is  out,  or  the  bottle- 
stopper  lost ! 

But  'tis  plain  enough  you  thought  I'd  sleep  all  day. 
Yes,  you'd  like  that.  You  wouldn't?  Oh,  I  know  ;  I 
know  !  Don't  you  always  say,  "  Too  bad  baby's  waked 
up  "?  Why  don't  you  get  some  other  kind?  —  get  a 
rag  baby,  or  gutta-percha,  or  a  wooden  one,  with  its 
eyes  screwed  down,  or  that  doesn't  have  any !  Swap 
me  off;  I'm  willing  ;  I'd  rather  than  to  be  in  the  way  : 
or  else  I'll  lay  my  little  heddy  down  and  go  to  s'eepy, 
and  never,  never,  open  eyes  again.  You'd  be  sorry  ?  — • 
then  why  don't  you  take  me  ? 

There,  that's  it,  — da,  da,  da!  "  Now  laugh,  look 
glad!"  I  like  that.  Kiss  me;  hug  hard;  call  me 
"lovey-dovey;"  call  me  "precious;"  call  me 
"honey  sweet ;"  trot  me;  cuddle  me;  tell  "Little 
Boy  Blue  ;  ' '  sing  a  pretty  song. 

Will  I  walk  a  little?  Oh,  yes  !  and  glad  to.  I've 
crept  long  enough.  Stand  me  up  against  the  wall : 
now  smooth  down  the  carpet ;  now  take  things  out  of 
the  way ;  now  hold  up  something  pretty,  and  I'll  walk 
to  it.  Your  thimble?  —  no,  you'll  cheat:  you  won't 
let  me  have  it.  Not  the  rattle  :  I'm  too  big  for  that,  I 
hope  !  String  of  spools?  — no,  I've  done  with  spools. 
Fruit-knife?  —  well,  }res,  I'll  come  for  the  fruit-knife. 
Now,  one,  two,  three,  four  steps  up  to  mother.  Da, 
da  !  kiss,  kiss,  kiss  !  sweet  as  sugary  candy ! 

Now  will  I  sit  on  the  floor  and  have  the  pretty 
things?  —  Yes  :  but  bring  them  all,  —  blocks,  soldiers, 
ninepins,  Noah's  ark,  Dinah,  and  Jumping- Jack,  and 
hammer  and  clothes-brush  and  pans  and  porringers, 
—  every  thing  ;  I  want  every  thing. 


WIDE-AWAKE. 


171 


Oh,  I'm  left  alone  !  Why  didn't  she  shake  a  day- 
day,  so  I  could  cry?  I  don't  want  these  anymore: 
I'd  rather  get  up  :  I'll  creep  to  something,  and  get  up, 
—  creep,  creep,  creep.  I'll  get  up  by  this.  What  is 
this  funny  thing,  so  soft  and  so  warm?  Now  I'll  pull 
up  ;  now  I'm  almost  up.  Oh !  it  moves  ;  it  growls  ; 


'tis  slipping  out ;  'tis  going  off !  down  I  come  again ! 
Oh  !  wo,  wo,  wa,  wa,  wo,  wra  !  Why  doesn't  somebody 
hear  me  ciy  ? 

A \vay  I  go  —  creep,  creep,  creep  —  to  the  rocking- 
chair.  Now  pull  up  by  this,  —  up,  up,  up;  most  up; 
way  up,  —  da,  da,  da  !  But  it  shakes  !  —  oh,  oh ! 


172  WIDE-AWAKE. 

down  I  come  again !  —  oh,  wo,  wa,  wo,  wa,  wo,  wa ! 
Why  doesn't  somebody  come  ? 

Creep,  creep,  creep.  What  is  this  so  tall,  and  so 
black,  and  so  shining?  Oh  !  this  will  do  :  let  me  catch 
hold.  Now  pull :  but  it  bends  ;  it  won't  hold  up.  Oh ! 
'tis  nothing  but  a  rubber-boot.  Away  I  roll  over ! 
Oh !  wa,  wa,  wa,  wo,  wa !  Why  doesn't  somebody 
come  ?  Oh  !  where  have  I  rolled  ?  where  is  this  ?  how 
dark  it  is !  I've  rolled  under  the  table.  Let  me  get 
out,  —  creep,  creep,  creep.  Ha  !  there's  something  !  — 
the  table-cloth  :  I'll  pull  up  by  this. 

But  I  don't  go  up.  It's  coming  down.  Oh,  my 
head!  What's  dropping  down?  —  work-basket,  domi- 
nos,  glass  tumbler,  scissors,  pin-cushion,  knitting-work, 
hooks-  and  eyes,  buttons.  Oh,  here's  the  fun !  Now 
I'll  get  pins ;  now  I'll  pull  the  needles  out ;  now  I'll 
put  things  in  my  mouth !  —  da,  da,  da ! 


EEASONS  WHY  THE  COW  TUKNED  SEE  HEAD 
AWAY, 


REPORTED   BY   A   BARN-SWALLOW. 

"  IV/fOOLLY  COW,  your  barn  is  warm:  the  wintry 
JjJL  winds  cannot  reach  you,  nor  frost  nor  snow. 
Why  are  your  eyes  so  sad?  Take  this  wisp  of  hay. 
See,  I  am  holding  it  up !  It  is  very  good.  Now  you 
turn  your  head  away.  Why  do  you  look  so  sorrowful, 
Moolly  Cow,  and  turn  your  head  away?  " 

"  Little  girl,  it  makes  me  sad  to  think  of  the  time 
when  that  dry  wisp  of  hay  was  living  grass;  when 
those  brown,  withered  flowers  were  blooming  clover- 
tops,  buttercups,  and  daisies,  and  the  bees  and  butter 
flies  came  about  them.  The  air  was  warm  then,  and 
gentle  winds  blew.  Every  morning  I  went  forth  to 
spend  the  day  in  sunny  pastures.  I  am  thinking  now 
of  those  early  summer-mornings,  — how  the  birds  sang, 
and  the  sun  shone,  and  the  grass  glittered  with  dew ; 
and  the  boy  that  opened  the  gates, — how  merrily  he 
whistled !  I  stepped  quickly  along,  sniffing  the  fresh 
morning-air,  snatching  at  times  a  hasty  mouthful  by 
**  the  way :  it  was  really  very  pleasant.  And,  when  the 
bars  fell,  how  joyfully  I  leaped  over !  I  knew  where 

173 


174        WHY   THE   COW   TUENED   HER   HEAD. 

the  grass  grew  green  and  tender,  and  hastened  to  eat  it 
while  the  dew  was  on. 


"  As  the  sun  rose  higher,  I  sought  the  shade  ;  and  at 
noonday  I  lay  under  the  trees,  chewing,  chewing,  chew 
ing,  with  half-shut  eyes,  and  the  drowsy  insects  hum 
ming  around  me  ;  or  perhaps  I  would  stand  motionless 
upon  the  river's  bank,  where  one  might  catch  a  breath 
of  air,  or  wade  deep  in  to  cool  myself  in  the  stream. 
And  when  noon-time  was  passed,  and  the  heat  grew 
less,  I  went  back  to  the  grass  and  flowers. 

"And  thus   the  long  summer-day  Sped  on,  —  sped 


WHY   THE   COW   TURNED   HEK   HEAD.        175 

pleasantly  on  ;  for  I  was  never  lonely.  No  lack  of  com 
pany  in  those  sunny  pasture-lands  !  The  grasshoppers 
and  crickets  made  a  great  stir,  bees  buzzed,  butterflies 
were  coming  and  going,  and  birds  singing  always.  I 
knew  where  the  ground-sparrows  built,  and  all  about 
the  little  field-mice.  They  were  very  friendly  to  me ; 
for  often,  while  nibbling  the  grass,  I  would  whisper, 
4  Keep  dark,  little  mice  !  don't  fly,  sparrows  !  boys  are 
coming !  ' 

"  No  lack  of  company  ;  oh,  no  !  When  that  withered 
hay  was  living  grass,  yellow  with  buttercups,  white 
with  daisies,  pink  with  clover,  it  was  the  home  of  myri 
ads  of  little  insects,  —  very,  very  little  insects.  Oh  ! 
but  the}-  made  things  lively,  crawling,  hopping,  skip 
ping  among  the  roots,  and  up  and  down  the  stalks, 
happ3T,  full  of  life,  never  still;  and  now  not  one  left 
alive.  They  are  gone  !  — that  pleasant  summer-time  is 
gone  !  Oh  these  long,  dismal  winter-nights  !  All  day 
I  stand  in  my  lonely  stall,  listening,  not  to  the  song  of 
birds,  or  hum  of  bees,  or  chirp  of  grasshoppers,  or  the 
pleasant  rustling  of  leaves,  but  often  to  the  noise  of 
howling  winds,  hail,  sleet,  and  driving  snow. 

"Little  girl,  I  pray  you  don't  hold  up  to  me  that 
wisp  of  hay.  In  just  that  same  way  they  held  before 
my  eyes  one  pleasant  morning  a  bunch  of  sweet-clover, 
to  entice  me  from  my  pretty  calf. 

' '  Poor  thing  !  She  was  the  only  one  I  had  ;  so  gay 
and  sprightly,  so  playful,  so  frisky,  so  happy !  It  was 
a  joy  to  see  her  caper,  and  toss  her  heels  about,  without 
a  thought  of  care  or  sorrow :  it  was  good  to  feel  her 
nestling  close  at  my  side  ;  to  look  into  her  bright,  inno 
cent  eyes  ;  to  rest  my  head  lovingly  upon  her  neck. 


176   WHY  THE  COW  TURNED  HER  HEAD. 

"  And  already  I  was  looking  forward  to  the  time  when 
she  would  become  steady  and  thoughtful  like  myself; 
was  counting  greatly  upon  her  company  of  nights  in  the 
dark  barn,  or  in  roaming  the  fields  through  the  long 
summer-days :  for  the  butterflies  and  bees,  and  all  the 
bits  of  insects,  though  well  enough  in  their  way,  and 
most  excellent  company,  were,  after  all,  not  akin  to 
me ;  and  there  is  nothing  like  living  with  one's  own 
blood  relations. 

"But  I  lost  my  pretty  little  one.  That  bunch  of 
sweet-clover  enticed  me  away.  When  I  came  back, 
she  was  gone.  I  saw  through  the  bars  the  rope  wound 
about  her ;  I  saw  the  cart ;  I  saw  the  cruel  men  lift 
her  in.  She  made  a  mournful  noise  :  I  cried  out,  and 
thrust  my  head  over  the  rail,  calling  in  language  she 
well  understood,  '  Come  back  !  —  oh,  come  back  ! ' 

"  She  looked  up  with  her  round,  sorrowful  eyes,  and 
wished  to  come  ;  but  the  rope  held  her  fast.  The  man 
cracked  his  whip ;  the  cart  rolled  away :  I  never  saw 
her  more. 

"  No,  little  girl,  I  cannot  take  your  wisp  of  hay :  it 
reminds  me  of  the  silliest  hour  of  my  life, — of  a  day 
when  I  surely  made  myself  a  fool.  And  on  that  day, 
too,  I  was  offered  by  a  little  girl  a  bunch  of  grass  and 
flowers. 

"  It  was  a  still  summer's  noon.  Not  a  breath  of  air 
was  stirring.  I  had  waded  deep  into  the  stream,  which 
was  then  calm  and  smooth.  Looking  down,  I  saw  my 
own  image  in  the  water  ;  and  I  perceived  that  my  neck 
was  thick  and  clumsy ;  that  my  hair  was  brick-color, 
and  my  head  of  an  ugly  shape,  with  two  horns  sticking 
out  much  like  the  prongs  of  a  pitchfork.  '  Truly,  Mrs. 
Cow,'  I  said,  '  you  are  by  no  means  handsome." 


WHY  THE  COW  TURNED   HER  HEAD.        177 

4 'Just  then  a  horse  went  trotting  along  th'e  bank. 
His  hair  was  glossy  black.  He  had  a  flowing  mane,  and 
a  tail  which  grew  thick  and  long.  His  proud  neck  was 
arched,  his  head  lifted  high.  He  trotted  lightly  over 
the  ground,  bending  in  his  hoofs  daintily  at  every  foot 
fall.  Said  I  to  myself,  '  Although  not  well-looking,  it 
is  quite  possible  that  I  can  step  beautifully,  like  the 
horse :  who  knows  ? '  And  I  resolved  to  plod  on  no 
longer  in  sober  cow-fashion,  but  to  trot  off  nimbly  and 
briskly  and  lightty. 

"I  waded  ashore,  climbed  the  bank,  held  my  head 
high,  stretched  out  my  neck,  and  did  my  best  to  trot 
like  the  horse,  bending  in  my  hoofs  as  well  as  was  pos 
sible  at  every  step,  hoping  that  all  would  admire  me. 

"  Some  children  gathering  flowers  near  by  burst  into 
shouts  of  laughter,  crying  out,  '  Look,  look,  Mary, 
Tom!  What  ails  the  cow?  She  acts  like  a  horse. 
She  is  putting  on  airs.  Clumsy  thing  !  her  tail  is  like 
a  pump-handle.  Oh  !  I  guess  she's  a  mad  cow.'  Then 
they  ran,  and  I  sank  down  under  a  tree  with  tears  in 
my  eyes. 

"  But  one  little  girl  staid  behind  the  rest ;  and,  seeing 
that  I  was  quiet,  she  came  softly  up,  step  by  step,  hold 
ing  out  a  bunch  of  grass  and  clover.  I  kept  still  as  a 
mouse.  She  stroked  me  with  her  soft  hand,  and  said,  — 

"  'O  good  Moolly  Cow !  I  love  }'ou  dearly ;  for  my 
mother  has  told  me  very  nice  things  about  you.  You 
are  good-natured,  and  we  all  love  you.  Every  day  you 
give  us  sweet  milk,  and  never  keep  any  for  yourself. 
The  boys  strike  you  sometimes,  and  throw  stones,  and 
set  the  dogs  on  you  ;  but  you  give  them  your  milk  just 
the  same.  And  you  are  never  contrary,  like  thehorso  ; 


178        WHY   THE   COW   TURNED   HER   HEAD. 

stopping  when  you  ought  to  go,  and  going  when  you 
ought  to  stop.  Nobody  has  to  whisper  in  your  ears 
to  make  you  gentle,  as  they  do  to  horses :  you  are 
gentle  of  your  own  accord,  dear  Moolly  Cow.  If  you 
do  walk  up  to  children  sometimes,  you  won't  hook  ;  it's 
only  playing :  and  I  will  stroke  you ,  and  love  }TOU 
dearly.' 

"  Her  words  gave  me  great  comfort";  and  may  she 
never  lack  for  milk  to  crumb  her  bread  in  !  But,  oh  ! 
take  away  your  wisp  of  hay,  little  girl ;  for  you  bring  to 
mind  the  summer-days  which  are  gone,  and  my  pretty 
bossy  that  was  stolen  away,  and  also  —  my  own  folly." 


TWO  LITTLE  BOGUES, 


SAYS  Sammy  to  Dick, 
"  Come,  hurry  ;  come,  quick  ! 
And  we'll  do,  and  we'll  do,  and  we'll  do! 
Our  mammy's  away ; 
She's  gone  for  to  stay : 

And  we'll  make  a  great  hullabaloo  ! 
Hi  too,  ri  loo,  loo,  loo,  loo  ! 

We'll  make  a  great  hullabaloo  !  " 

Says  Dicky  to  Sam, 
"  All  weddy  I  am 

To  do,  and  to  do,  and  to  do. 
But  how  doeth  it  go  ? 
I  so  ittle  to  know  : 

Thay ,  what  be  a  hullabawoo  ? 
Ri  too,  ri  loo,  woo,  woo,  woo  ! 

Thay,  what  be  a  hullabawoo?  " 

"  Oh  !  slammings  and  hangings, 
And  whingings  and  whangings, 
And  very  bad  mischief  we'll  do  : 

179 


180  TWO  LITTLE  EOGUES. 

We'll  clatter  and  shout, 
And  pull  tilings  about ; 

And  that's  what's  a  hullabaloo ! 
Ei  too,  ri  loo,  loo,  loo,  loo ! 

And  that's  what's  a  hullabaloo  ! 

"  Slide  down  the  front-stairs, 
.    Tip  over  the  chairs, 

Now  into  the  pantry  break  through ; 
We'll  take  down  some  tinware, 
And  other  things  in  there  : 

All  aboard  for  a  hullabaloo  ! 
Ri  too,  ri  loo,  loo,  loo,  loo  ! 

All  aboard  for  a  hullabaloo  ! 

4 '  Now  roll  up  the  table 
Far  up  as  you're  able, 

Chairs,  sofa,  big  easy-chair  too ; 
Put  the  poker  and  vases 
In  funny  old  places  : 

How's  this  for  a  hullabaloo? 
Ri  too,  ri  loo,  loo,  loo,  loo  ! 

How's  this  for  a  hullabaloo? 

"  Let  the  dishes  and  pans 
Be  the  womans  and  mans  : 

Everybody  keep  still  in  their  pew  I 
Mammy's  gown  I'll  get  next, 
And  preach  you  a  text. 

Dicky,  hush  with  your  hullabaloo ! 
Ri  too,  ri  loo,  loo,  loo,  loo  ! 

Dicky,  hush  with  your  hullabaloo !  " 


TWO   LITTLE  KOGUES.  181 

As  the  preacher  in  gown 
Climbed  up,  and  looked  down 

His  queer  congregation  to  view, 
Said  Dicky  to  Sammy, 
"  Oh,  dere  comes  our  mammy ! 

Se'll  thcold  for  dis  hullabawoo. 
Ri  too,  ri  loo,  woo,  woo,  woo  ! 

Se'll  thcold  for  dis  hullabawoo  !  " 

"  O  mammy !  O  mammy  !  " 
Cried  Dicky  and  Sammy, 

"  We'll  never  again,  certain  true." 
But  with  firm  step  she  trod, 
And  looked  hard  at  the  rod : 

Oh,  then  came  a  hullabaloo ! 
"  Boohoo,  boohoo,  woo,  woo,  woo !  " 

Oh,  then  came  a  hullabaloo  ! 


THE  BELATED  BUTTERFLY, 


[MORNING.] 

AM  I  awake?  am  I  alive?  Then  it  was  true,  after 
all.  Aunt  Caterpillar  told  me,  that  if  I  would 
cover  myself  over,  and  lie  stock-still,  and  go  to  sleep, 
I  should  wake  up  a  beauty.  She  said  I  should  no 
longer  creep,  but  should  fly  like  the  birds  ;  and  I  do. 
She  said  I  would  never  need  to  chew  leaves  any  more, 
but  might  feed  upon  sugar  of  roses,  and  sip  honey  from 
the  flowers.  She  said  I  should  have  beautiful  wings  of 
purple  and  gold.  And  it  is  every  word  true. 

Now  I'm  frying.  Oh,  glorious  !  This  floating  in  the 
air  —  oh,  what  a  joy  it  is  !  Good-by,  you  little  worms  ! 
Here  I  go  up,  up,  up,  —  a  trifle  dizzy,  that  is  to  be  ex 
pected  at  first, — higher,  higher.  Good-morning,  Mr. 
Bluebird  !  We  have  wings,  haven't  we  ?  Down,  —  no,  I 
will  not  touch  the  earth :  I  will  rock  in  this  lily,  brush 
the  dew  from  the  mignonette,  breathe  the  perfume  of 
the  heliotrope,  and  rest  in  the  heart  of  this  damask- 
rose. 

What  sweet  rest !  How  soft  these  rose-leaves  are  ! 
Let  me  nestle  close,  —  close.  But  I  grow  faint  with  the 

182 


THE  BELATED  BUTTERFLY.        183 

perfume,  and  must  be  off,  —  off  to  the  hills,  where  sweet- 
brier  and  wild  roses  grow.  Cousin  Moth  sa}Ts  she  goes 
there  every  day.  Oh  the  joy  of  flying  !  Up,  down  ;  up, 
down ;  up,  down ;  now  rest,  now  float,  now  sip,  now 
rock,  now  away,  away  ! 

Here  are  the  tall  blue  meadow-flowers.  I'll  stay 
a  while  with  them.  How  long  it  used  to  take  me,  with 
my  eighteen  legs,  to  creep  thus  far !  Whom  have  we 
here?  What  mean,  dull  fly  is  this?  and  why  should  he 
have  wings  ?  What !  — keep  company  with  me  ?  You  ? 
Impossible  !  Have  you  noticed  who  I  am,  pray?  or  are 
you  asleep  ?  Look  at  my  brilliant  wings  !  I  am  a  But 
terfly,  born  in  the  purple.  Of  some  use  ? — dear  me  !  of 
what  use  could  such  as  you  be  to  such  as  I?  Upon  my 
word,  I  pity  you ;  but  all  can't  be  Butterflies,  or  go  in 
company  with  Butterflies.  Please  don't  follow,  I  should 
feel  so  mortified !  Good-by !  Now  for  a  long,  long 
flight  over  the  meadows  ! 

The  hills,  at  last,  — the  breezy  hills  !  Ah  !  good  bees, 
have  you  come  too?  and. you  poor  little  wee  grasshop 
pers  !  Dear  humming-bird,  isn't  it  jolly?  Why  don't 
you  sing?  You  don't  know  how? — what  a  phYy  !  But 
you  can  hum.  Oh  this  charming  sweetbrier  !  and  here 
are  wild-roses :  now  we'll  have  a  merry  time  among 
the  wild-roses,  and  play  in  the  fragrant  sweet-fern. 

[EVENING.] 

Lost,  lost,  lost !  I  wandered  too  far  among  the  hills. 
Who  will  show  me  the  way  home  ?  My  home  is  in  the 
flower-garden :  will  no  one  show  me  the  way  ?  Oh 
this  frightful  darkness !  Where  is  the  beautiful  day 
light  gone  ?  The  evening  dews  are  cold  and  damp.  My 


184        THE  BELATED  BUTTERFLY. 

wings  droop  from  weariness.  The  night-winds  chill 
me  through.  Ugly  creatures  are  abroad,  and  strange 
sounds  fill  the  air.  I  see  no  flowers  ;  hear  no  singing 
of  birds,  no  chirping  of  insects,  no  humming  of  bees. 
Where  are  you,  little  bees? 

Oh,  this  dreary,  dreary  night !  Shivering  with  cold,  I 
fly  hither  and  thither,  but  never  find  my  home.  I  am  a 
poor  lost  Butterfly.  Who  will  pity  a  poor  lost  Butterfly  ? 

What  dreadful  sounds  !  —  "  Juggulp,  juggulp,  jugg- 
ulp  !  "  Away,  quick  !  "  Juggulp,  juggulp."  Oh,  dear  ! 
oh,  dear  !  Now  something  just  hit  me  !  Again  !  Some 
horrid  monster  !  —  a  bat,  perhaps.  Cousin  Moth  said, 
"  Beware  of  bats  ;  for  they  will  eat  you  up."  I  shah1 
die  with  fright.  I  know,  I  know,  I  shall  die  with  fright. 
My  wings  can  scarcely  move,  —  my  fine  purple  wings  ! 
Will  the  dear  warm  sun  never  shine  again  ?  Cousin  Moth 
told  me  of  so  many  dangers,  and  never  even  mentioned 
getting  lost.  Alas  !  must  I  die  here  all  alone,  breathe 
my  last  breath  in  this  terrible  place  ?  Better  that  some 
boy  had  caught  me  in  his  hat ;  that  I  had  been  choked 
with  a  match,  stuck  on  a  pin,  or  put  under  a  glass,  than 
to  drop  down  here  in  the  cold,  gasping,  quivering,  and 
die  all  alone. 

Who  comes  ?  Can  I  believe  my  own  eyes  ?  Is  that  a 
light  ?  Ho  !  a  fly  with  a  lantern  !  How  quick  he  darts  ! 
Stop  there,  you  with  a  lantern  ! 

It  is  the  very  same  mean  fly  I  met  this  morning. 
Good  fly,  best  creature,  charming  insect !  I  pray  you 
light  me  home.  Do  you  know  where  the  flower-garden 
is  ?  You  do  ?  that  is  nry  home.  My  lodgings  are  among 
the  damask-rose-leaves.  I  am  a  poor  belated  Butterfly. 
I  lost  nry  way  ;  staid  very  long  with  the  sweetbrier,  and 
never  thought  the  daylight  would  go. 


THE  BELATED  BUTTERFLY.        185 

You  will  light  me  home?  That's  a  dear  fly  !  Your 
name  is  Firefly  ?  What  a  sweet  name  !  But  how  fast 
you  go  !  Please  don't  dart  so  quick,  because  I  cannot 
follow  ;  for  nry  wings  are  very,  oh !  very  tired.  Slower, 
slower,  that's  a  kind  firefly  !  Now  we  go  nicely  on. 

What  will  you  take  for  your  lamp ?  Won't  sell?  But 
you  will  forget,  I  hope,  our  morning  conversation. 
Perhaps,  though,  so  little  a  fly  can't  remember  so  long. 
You  can  remember?  Then  what  a  kind,  forgiving  crea 
ture  you  are  !  I  shall  certainly  speak  well  of  you  to  my 
friends.  Call  on  me  almost  any  time, — that  is,  almost 
any  evening,  —  and  we'll  go  out  together.  We  have 
come  a  very  long  way,  and  should  now  be  near  home. 
Yes,  the  air  is  so  fragant  here,  that  I  am  sure  we  have 
nearly  reached  the  flower-garden.  I  smell  the  perfume 
quite  plainly.  We  are  passing  over  mignonette  ;  that 
is  the  breath  of  sweet-pea ;  now  the  bed  of  pinks  is 
beneath  us ;  here  must  be  the  hone}'suckle-bower ; 
here  is  balm  ;  here  is  lavender  ;  and  here's  the  smell  of 
the  damask-rose. 

Now  thanks  and  good-b}r,  my  friend.  I  shall  need 
you  no  longer :  the  fragrance  will  guide  me  to  bed. 
Good-night,  little  fly ! 

I  do  think  it  is  very  strange,  and  say  so,  now  he 
is  out  of  hearing,  that  such  mean-looking  little  flies 
should  have  lamps  to  cany,  while  we  Butterflies,  who 
would  light  up  so  beautifully,  and  are  so  much  superior 
to  them,  should  be  obliged  to  do  without. 


THE  MAPLE-TREE'S  CHILDREN. 


A  MAPLE-TREE  awoke  at  spring-time,  shivering  in 
-£\-  the  east  winds.  "  O  mother  Nature  !  "  she  said, 
"  I  tremble  with  cold.  Behold  my  limbs  ugly  and  bare  ! 
The  birds  are  all  coming  back  from  the  south,  and  I 
would  look  my  best.  They  will  soon  be  building  their 
nests.  Oh,  a  bird's  nest  does  make  a  tree  so  pleas 
ant  !  But,  alas !  they  will  not  come  to  me,  because 
I  have  no  leaves  to  hide  them." 

And  kind  mother  Nature  smiled,  and  presented  her 
daughter  Maple  with  such  multitudes  of  leaves  !  —  more 
than  you  could  count.  These  gave  beauty  to  the  tree, 
besides  keeping  the  rain  out  of  the  birds'  nests ;  for 
birds  had  quickly  come  to  build  there,  and  there  was 
reason  to  expect  a  lively  summer.  A  right  happy 
Maple-Tree  now  was  she,  and  well  pleased  with  her 
pretty  green  leaves.  They  were  beautiful  in  the  sun 
light  ;  and  the  winds  whispered  to  them  things  so  sweet 
as  to  make  them  dance  for  joy.  A  pair  of  golden-rob 
ins  had  a  home  there,  and  thrushes  came  often.  Sun 
shine  and  song  all  day  long !  Or,  if  the  little  leaves 
became  hot  and  thirsty  in  the  summer's  heat,  good 
186 


THE  MAPLE-TREE'S  CHILDREN.  187 

mother  Nature  gave  them  cooling  rain-drops  to  drink. 
A  happier  Maple-Tree  could  nowhere  be  foiind. 

"Thanks,  thanks,  mother  Nature,"  she  said,  "for 
all  your  care  and  your  loving-kindness  to  me." 

But,  when  autumn  came  with  its  gloomy  skies  and  its 
chilling  winds,  the  Maple-Tree  grew  sad  :  for  she  heard 
her  little  leaves  sajTing  to  each  other,  ' '  We  are  going 
to  die  ;  we  are  going  to  die  !  " 

People  living  near  said,  "Hark!  Do  you  hear  the 
wind?  It  sounds  like  fall."  Nobody  told  them  it  was 
the  leaves  all  over  the  forest,  moaning  to  each  other, 
"  We  are  going  to  die  ;  we  are  going  to  die  !  " 

"My  dear  little  leaves!"  sighed  the  Maple-Tree. 
"  Poor  things,  they  must  go  !  Ah,  how  sad  to  see  them 
droop  and  fade  awa}T !  ' ' 

"I  will  make  their  death  beautiful,"  said  kind  moth 
er  Nature ;  and  she  changed  their  color  to  a  scarlet, 
which  glowed  in  the  sunlight  like  fire. 

And  everyone  said,  "  How  beautiful!"  But  the 
poor  Maple-Tree  sighed,  knowing  it  was  the  beauty  of 
death. 

And  one  cold  October  morning  she  stood  with  her 
limbs  all  bare,  looking  desolate.  The  bright  leaves  lay 
heaped  about  her. 

"  Dear,  pretty  things,"  she  said,  "  how  I  shall  miss 
them  !  they  were  such  a  comfort !  And ,  how  ugly  I 
am !  Nobody  will  enjoy  looking  at  the  Maple-Tree 
now." 

But  presently  a  flock  of  school-girls  came  along, 
chatting  away,  all  so  cheerily,  of  ferns,  red  berries,  and 
autumn-leaves. 

"And  I  think,"  said  one,  "  that  there's  a  great 
deal  of  beauty  in  a  tree  without  any  leaves 'at  all." 


188          THE  MAPLE-TKEE'S  CHILDREN. 

"  So  do  I,"  said  another.  "Just  look  up  through 
yonder  elm  !  Its  branches  and  boughs  and  twigs  make 
a  lovely  picture  against  the  sky." 

"When  my  uncle  came  home,"  said  a  third,  "he 
told  us  that  some  of  the  people  in  the  torrid  zone  per 
fectly  longed  to  see  a  forest  without  leaves." 

And,  thus  chattering,  the  lively  school-girls  passed 
on. 

"  Ah !  "  sighed  the  Maple-Tree,  "  this  will  at  least 
be  pleasant  to  dream  about." 

For  she  already  felt  her  winter's  nap  coming  on.  If 
she  could  but  have  staid  awake,  and  heard  what  her 
little  leaves  said  to  each  other  afterwards  down  there 
on  the  ground ! 

' '  Dear  old  tree  !  She  has  taken  care  of  us  all  our  lives, 
and  fed  us,  and  held  us  up  to  the  sun,  and  been  to  us  a 
kind  mother ;  and  now  we  will  do  something  for  her. 
We  will  get  under  ground,  and  turn  ourselves  into  food 
to  feed  her  with  ;  for  she'll  be  sure  to  wake  up  hungry 
after  her  long  nap." 

G,ood  little  things  !  The  rains  helped  them,  and  the 
winds,  —  in  this  way :  The  rains  beat  them  into  the 
ground,  and  the  winds  blew  sand  over  them  ;  and  there 
they  turned  themselves  into  something  very  nice  for 
the  old  Maple-Tree,  —  something  good  to  take. 


THE  WHISPEREK, 


UNCLE  JOE,  being  "  stumped  "  by  the  children  to 
tell  a  story  about  a  birch-tree,  began  as  follows  :  — 

"  There  was  once  a  lovely  princess  who  had  a  fairy 
for  a  godmother.  ^This  young  princess  was  slender, 
graceful,  and  very  fair  to  behold.  She  usually  dressed 
in  green,  green  being  her  favorite  color. 

"  This  pretty  creature  would  have  been  a  great  favor 
ite  but  for  her  troublesome  habit  of  whispering.  She 
had  always  some  wonderful  news,  or  seemed  to  have, 
which  everybody  must  hear  privately :  so  no  wonder 
that  she  came  to  be  known,  at  last,  by  the  name  of 
'  The  Whisperer.' 

"  Now,  this  conduct  was  very  displeasing  to  the  old 
fairy,  who,  being  of  a  hasty  temper,  would  often  be 
come  angry,  and  scold  and  threaten  her  ;  though,  when 
good-natured,  she  would  smile  most  pleasantly  upon 
her,  and  drop  gold  in  her  path. 

"The  princess,  as  may  be  imagined,  liked  to  see 
herself  well  dressed  ;  and  every  year  she  saved  up  the 
gold  which  her  godmother  had  dropped,  and  spun  and 
wove  herself  a  fine  golden  mantle.  The  faiiy  was  quite 
willing  to  find  her  in  gold  to  spin  ;  and  all  would  have 

189 


190  THE   WHISPEKEK. 

gone  well,  only  for  the  habit  above  mentioned ;  which 
habit,  I  will  say  in  passing,  was  very  strong  upon  her 
in  breezy  weather. 

u  But  one  day  the  old  lady,  who,  as  has  been  re 
marked,  was  of  rather  a  hasty 'turn,  became  so  pro 
voked,  that  she  lost  all  patience  with  the  whisperer, 
and,  touching  her  with  her  wand,  changed  her,  quick  as 
thought,  to  a  slender  green  tree. 

' '  '  Now  stand  there  and  whisper  to  the  winds ! ' 
cried  the  angry  fairy. 

"  And  sure  enough  she  did.  The  pretty,  graceful 
tree  did  stand  and  whisper  to  the  winds  ever  after,  but 
always .  saved  up  sunshine  enough  through  the  long 
summer-days  to  weave  for  itself  a  golden  mantle,  and, 
when  decked  in  that,  was  as  pleased  as  a  tree  could  be 
to  see  itself  so  fine. 

"And  that's  the  way,  so  I've  been  told,"  said  uncle 
Joe,  laughing,  "that  birch-trees  began.  Go  into  the 
woods  any  time  when  there's  a  light  breeze  stirring, 
and  you  may  hear  them  whispering,  whispering,  whis 
pering.  They  never  fail,  however,  to  save  up  sunshine 
enough  through  the  long  summer-days  to  weave  for 
themselves  fine  golden  mantles.  But  these  fine  golden 
mantles  are  sure  to  be  spoiled  by  a  rough  old  king  who 
comes  this  way  every  year,  storming  and  raging,  and 
making  a  great  bluster.  He  gives  them  white  ones 
instead  ;  but  they  are  not  as  pretty. 

"  Say,  my  little  children,  do  you  know  who  this  old 
king  is  ?  " 


A  STRANGER  IN  PILGRIM-LAND,  AND  WHAT 

HE  SAW. 


IE  town  of  the  Pilgrims  — how  often,  in  my  far-off 
Western  home,  have  I  read  its  story,  and  the  story 
of  the  stout-hearted  who  sailed  across  the  sea  to  this 
very  spot,  then  a  wilderness,  two  hundred  and  fifty 
years  ago ! 

And  I  have  come  at  last  to  visit  the  town  of  my 
dreams  ;  have  actually  set  my  foot  upon  its  ' '  holy 
ground."  This  hill,  planted  thick  with  graves,  is  the 
ancient  "Burial  Hill."  Sitting  among  its  mossy  head 
stones,  I  look  far  across  the  bay  to  the  cliffs  of  Cape 
Cod,  where,  before  landing  here,  some  of  "The  Ma}T- 
flower's  "  crew  went  ashore. to  get  firewood.  Just  below 
me  lies  the  town,  sloping  to  the  sea.  Vessels  sail  in  and 
out,  and  little  boats  skim  over  the  water  like  white- 
winged  birds.  How  can  they  skim  so  lightl}'  over  the 
hallowed  waters  of  Plymouth  Bay !  Far  less  swiftly 
sped  that  "first  boat,"  laden  with  passengers  from 
"The  Mayflower." 

Two  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago  !  —  let  me  use  for 
a  while,  not  my  real  eyes,  but  my  other  pair,  the 


192  A  STRANGER  IN  PILGRIM-LAND, 

of  my  mind,  my  "  dream  eyes,"  and  see,  or  make 
believe  that  I  see,  this  place  just  as  it  looked  then. 

And  now  I  will  suppose  the  town  has  vanished.  No 
streets,  no  houses,  no  sail  upon  the  sea.  Stillness 
reigns  over  the  land  and  over  the  dark  waters  of  the 
bay. 

A  ship  enters  the  harbor.  Why  should  a  ship  come 
sailing  to  these  desolate  shores  ?  A  hundred  and  one 
passengers  are  on  board.  They  have  come  three  thou 
sand  miles,  have  been  tossed  upon  the  ocean  one  hun 
dred  days  and  nights  ;  and  now  they  find  no  friends  to 
welcome  them.  Not  a  house,  nor  a  single  white  per 
son,  in  all  this  vast  wilderness.  What  will  they  do  — 
these  men,  women,  and  children  —  in  so  dreary  a  place? 
Can  they  keep  from  freezing  in  this  bitter  cold  ? 

A  boat  puts  off  from  the  ship.  Row,  row,  row. 
Nearer  and  nearer  it  comes.  But  how  will  they  land  ? 
Will  the  sailors  jump  out,  and  pull  her  up  high  and  dry? 
Ah !  to  be  sure,  there  is  a  Rock,  and  the  only  one  to  be 
seen  along  the  shore.  They  steer  for  that.  And  now 
I  see  Elder  Brewster,  their  first  minister,  and  Gov. 
Carver,  their  first  governor,  and  Capt.  Miles  Standish, 
their  first  soldier,  and  Mary  Chilton,  the  first  woman 
who  stepped  upon  the  Rock.  Now  the  boat  goes  back, 
—  back  for  another  load. 

Where  can  all  these  people  live  ?  Out  of  doors  this 
wintry  weather?  Let  me  see  what  they  will  do. 

They  cut  down  trees  to  build  houses.  First  a 
' '  common  house ' '  is  built ;  then  the  one  hundred  and 
one  people  are  divided  into  nineteen  families,  and 
begin  to  construct  nineteen  log-huts,  each  family  work 
ing  upon  its  own.  These  are  set  in  two  rows,  and  are 


AND   WHAT   HE   SAW.  193 

placed  near  together,  on  account  of  the  Indians.  The 
two  rows  form  a  street,  which  runs  from  a  cliff  by  the 
water's  edge  part  way  up  this  hill. 

Now  the  goods  are  being  brought  ashore, — bales, 
boxes,  farming-tools.  And  there  is  a  cradle.  They 
will  need  that  to  rock  little  Peregrine  White  in.  A 
baby  has  been  born  on  the  passage,  whom  they  named 
"  Peregrine,"  because  he  was  born  during  their  pere 
grinations,  or  travels. 

More  goods  are  landed,  such  as  beds,  bedding, 
dinner-pots,  dishes,  pewter  platters,  spinning-wheels; 
and  the  nineteen  fanilies  go  to  house-keeping,  and  begin 
New  England. 

What  will  they  eat,  I  wonder.  Why,  some  catch 
fish ;  some  dig  clams ;  others  hunt.  There  comes  a 
hunting-party,  which  brings,  among  other  game,  an 
eagle.  Will  they  realty  eat  it?  —  eat  the  "American 
eagle  "  !  Yes,  they  do,  and  declare  that  it  tastes 
"very  much  like  a  sheep."  But  it  was  not  the 
"  American  eagle  "  then. 

Soon  to  these  nineteen  families  come  sickness  and 
death.  In  December,  six  people  die ;  in  January, 
eight ;  in  February,  seventeen ;  in  March,  thirteen. 
Scarcely  half  remain.  They  bury  their  dead  with  bitter 
tears,  but  raise  no  stones  above  them.  A  crop  of 
corn  is  sown  over  the  graves,  that  the  Indians  may 
not  know  how  few  are  left  alive. 

And,  now  that  spring  has  come,  "  The  Mayflower" 
must  go  back  to  England.  Will  none  return  by  this 
only  chance  ?  Is  there  not  even  one  feeble  woman  who 
would  rather  go  home  and  live  an  easy  life?  No. 
For  freedom's  sake  they  came,  and  for  freedom's  sake 


194  A   STRANGER   IN  PILGEIM-LAND, 

they  will  remain.  Not  one  goes  back  in  "  The  May 
flower." 

They  climb'  the  hill,  this  very  hill,  and  watch  her 
as  she  sails  away,  — this  very  hill !  I  see  them  stand 
ing  around  me ;  see  their  pale  faces  ;  see  eyes,  dim 
-with  tears,  following  each  turn  of  the  ship.  Now  she 
is  but  a  speck :  now  she  is  gone,  and  they  are  left 
alone.  Behind  them  stretches  the  wilderness,  away, 
and  awa}^,  and  away,  across  the  continent;  before 
them,  three  thousand  miles  of  ocean.  Slowly  and 
sadly  they  descend  the  hill  to  that  cluster  of  huts, 
and  the  life  of  toil  goes  on. 

And  now  I  will  use  my  real  eyes,  and  go  down  to 
view  the  town,  —  a  quaint  old  town,  with  narrow, 
crooked  streets,  yet  quite  a  populous  old  town,  num 
bering  its  seven  or  eight  thousand.  The  Indians  used 
to  hold  their  feasts  upon  that  hill  at  the  right ;  and 
clam-shells  are  still  to  be  found  buried  in  the  soil 
upon  its  western  side.  At  the  foot  of  this  hill  runs 
Town  Brook,  where  Gov.  Carver  made  a  treaty  with 
the  Indian  chief  Massasoit.  Massasoit  came  down  the 
hill  with  a  train  of  sixt}^  Indians,  but  crossed  the  brook 
with  only  twenty.  They  were  nearly  naked,  painted, 
oiled,  and  adorned  with  beads,  feathers,  and  fox-tails. 
Capt.  Miles  Standish  with  a  few  of  his  men  marched 
them  into  a  hut,  where  were  placed  "  a  green  rug,  and 
some  cushions  which  served  as  thrones."  The  gov 
ernor  then  marched  in  to  the  music  of  drums  and  trum 
pets.  He  kissed  Massasoit,  and  Massasoit  kissed  him. 
The  Indians  "  marvelled  much  at  the  trumpet." 

Now  I  walk  down  into  that  street  which  was  first  laid 
out,  and  divided  into  lots  for  the  nineteen  families.  It 


AND  WHAT  HE  SAW.  195 

is  a  short  street,  leading  to  the  sea ;  and  on  the  right,  at 
the  lower  end,  may  be  seen  the  site  of  the  first  house. 
On  the  left  is  the  hill  upon  which  the  Pilgrims  made 
that  early  graveyard,  planting  it  over  with  corn.  It 
was  then  a  cliff  overhanging  the  sea:  now  a  street 
runs  along  at  its  foot,  on  the  outer  side  of  which  are 
wharves  and  storehouses.  I  am  glad  that  these  last 
are  by  no  means  in  good  repair ;  glad  that,  standing 
near  the  Rock,  they  have  the  grace  to  look  old  and  gray 
and  weather-beaten. 

Farther  and  farther  on  I  go.  Soon  shall  my  longing 
e}Tes  behold  that  sacred  Rock  "  where  first  the}-  trod." 
Ah,  how  many  times  have  I  fancied  myself  sitting 
upon  its  top,  gazing  off  with  my  other  pair — my  dream 
eyes  —  at  "  The  Ma}*flower,"  watching  the  coming  of 
the  crowded  boat,  almost  reaching  out  my  hand  to  the 
fair  Mary  Chilton ! 

But  where  is  it  ?  I  must  be  near  the  spot ;  but  where 
is  the  Rock?  Here  comes  a  boy.  "  My  young  friend, 
can  you  show  me  the  way  to  the  Rock?  "  ~Boy  points 
to  a  lofty  stone  canopy.  "Is  it  possible?  "  I  exclaim : 
"all  that  hewn  out  of  Forefathers'  Rock?"  Boy 
smiles,  takes  me  under  the  canopy,  and  points  to  a 
square  hole  cut  in  the  platform.  "  There  'tis  :  Fore 
fathers'  Rock's  'most  all  underground."  I  look  down 
at  the  enclosed  rocky  surface,  less  than  two  feet  square  ; 
then  with  a  sigh  stagger  against  the  nearest  granite 
'column.  "  Sick?  "  boy  asks.  "  Oh,  no  !  onl}'  a  fall 
I— down  from  a  rock.  The  one  in  my  mind  was  so 
high  !  "  —  "  'Nother  piece  of  it  out  at  Pilgrim  Hall," 
boy  remarks. 

I  inquire  my  way  to  that  Pilgrim  Hall.     Here  it  is ; 


196 


A   STRANGER   IK  PILGRIM-LAND, 


and  here,  right  in  front,  lies  the  precious  fragment, 
surrounded  by  an  iron  fence,  and  marked  in  great 
black  letters  "  1620." 


Now  I  am  going  into  the  hall  to  see  the  Pilgrim 
relics,  some  of  which  were  brought  over  in  u  The  May 
flower." 

On  the  wall  of  the  ante-room  hangs  Lora  Standish's 
sampler,  wrought  in  silks  of  divers  colors,  bright  enough 
two  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago,  no  doubt,  though, 
alas !  all  faded  now.  Using  again  my  dream  eyes,  I 
behold  the  fair  young  girl,  intent  on  learning  u  mark 
ing-stitch,"  bending  over  the  canvas,  counting  the 
threads,  winding  bright  silks ;  her  cheeks  as  bright 
as  the3r.  Little  thinks  she  how  many  shall  come  cen 
turies  after  to  view  her  work.  Underneath  the  alpha 
bet  are  stitched  these  lines,  which  with  my  real  eyes  I 
read :  — 

"Lora  Standish  is  my  name. 
Lord,  guide  my  hart,  that  I  may  doe  thy  will; 
Also  fill  my  hands  with  such  convenient  skill 
As  may  conduce  to  virtue  void  of  shame; 
And  I  will  give  the  glory  to  thy  name." 


AND  WHAT  HE  SAW.  197 

In  this  same  ante-room  I  find  the  two  famous  old 
arm-chairs  that  came  over  in  "  The  Ma}'flower,"  one  of 
which  belonged  to  Elder  Brewster,  and  the  other  to 
Gov.  Carver. 

This  ante-room  on  the  right  contains  an  ancient  spin 
ning-wheel,  also  some  bones  and  a  kettle  dug  from  an 
Indian  grave.  The  kettle  was  found  placed  over  the 
Indian's  head.  Here,  too,  arc  many  ver}r  old  books. 

Now  I  enter  the  large  hall,  sit  for  half  an  hour  before 
an  immense  painting  $ — of  the  Landing, — and  am 
shown  two  large  cases  with  glass  doors.  In  one  of 
these  is  a  great  round-bottomed  iron  dinner-pot,  once 
belonging  to  Miles  Standish.  The  handle,  which  has  a 
hinge  in  its  centre,  lies  inside.  Using  my  other  pair, 
my  dream  eyes,  I  see  this  big  pot  hanging  over  a  big 
blazing  fire,  pretty  Lora  tending  it ;  while  the  gallant 
captain  stands  near,  polishing  his  sword.  To  guess 
what  is  cooking  in  the  pot  I  get  this  hint  from  an  old 
ballad  of  those  times  :  — 

"  For  pottage  and  puddings  and  custards  and  pies 
Our  pumpkins  and  parsnips  are  common  supplies. 
We  have  pumpkin  at  morning,  and  pumpkin  at  noon: 
If  it  was  not  for  pumpkin,  we  should  be  uncloon." 

And  as  for  what  they  drank  with  their  dinner,  — 

"  If  barley  be  wanting  to  make  into  malt, 
We  must  be  contented,  and  think  it  no  fault; 
For  we  can  make  liquor  to  sweeten  our  lips 
Of  pumpkins  and  parsnips  and  walnut-tree  chips." 

The  captain  was  polishing  his  sword,  I  said ;  and 
here  it  lies  inside.  Need  enough  it  has  of  polish  now  ! 
And  here  is  one  of  his  great  pewter  plates.  Poor  Lora 


198  A   STRANGER  IN  PILGRIM-LAND, 

Standish,  with  a  pile  of  those  to  wash  and  to  wipe  and 
to  scour ! 

Whose  spoon?  "  Elder  Brewster's,"  the  label  says, 
—  a  dark  iron  spoon  with  a  rounded  bowl  (a  bit  nipped 
off  the  edge)  and  a  short  handle.  A  spoon  suggests 
i  i  chowder  ; ' '  and  no  doubt  this  one  often  carried  that 
delicious  food  to  the  lips  of  the  elder :  for  what  says 
the  ballad?  — 

"  If  we've  a  mind  for  a  delicate  dish, 
"We  go  to  the  clam-bank,  and  there  we  catch  fish." 

And,  speaking  of  spoons,  they  used  stout  forks  in 
those  days.  Here  is  one  a  foot  long,  with  a  short 
handle,  and  two  prongs  very  wide  apart,  —  certainly 
not  made  to  eat  peas  with ! 

That  inlaid  cabinet  on  the  upper  shelf  must  have 
been  a  pretty  thing  in  its  day.  It  belonged  to  Pere 
grine  White,  and  came  to  him,  so  the  label  says,  from 
his  mother, — just  as  likely  as  not  a  present  to  her 
from  Mr.  White  in  their  courting-days,  and  used  to 
keep  his  love-letters  in  :  who  knows  ?  With  my  other 
pair  I  can  see  the  rosy  English  girl  sitting  alone  by 
her  cabinet.  Its  little  drawers  of  letters  are  open,  and 
with  a  smile  and  a  blush  she  reads  over  the  old  ones 
while  awaiting  the  new.  I  wonder  if  any  fortune-teller 
ever  told  her  that  she  would  sail  over  the  seas  to  dwell 
in  a  wilderness,  and  that  she  would  be  the  first  New- 
England  mother, — the  first  bride  too;  for,  after  Mr. 
White's  death,  she  married  Mr.  Edward  Winslow,  the 
third  governor  ;  and  their  wedding  was  the  first  one  in 
the  colony.  Yonder,  among  other  portraits,  hangs 
that  of  Mr.  Winslow.  On  the  top  of  this  relic-case  is 


AND   WHAT  HE  SAW.  199 

a  flaxen  wig  worn  by  one  of  the  Winslow  family,  and 
underneath  it  is  Mr.  White's  ivoiy-headed  cane. 

What  is  this  sealed  up  in  a  bottle  ?  Apple-preserve , 
made  from  the  apples  of  a  tree  which  Peregrine  White 
planted.  Think  of  apple-preserve  keeping  so  long  ! 

On  one  of  these  shelves  inside  I  see  dingy  old 
Bibles  ;  also  the  spectacles  with  which  they  were  read, 
looking  as  if  they  could  almost  see  without  an}r  eyes 
behind  them.  There  is  an  .ancient  Dutch  Bible,  with 
brass  studs  and  clasps,  and  an  English  one,  open  at 
the  titlepage,  "Imprinted  at  London  by  Robert  Bar 
ker,  printer  to  the  King's  most  excellent  Majestie." 

And  —  is  it  possible?  can  this  really  be?  yes,  there  it 
is  in  black  and  white  — John  Alden's  Bible  I  O  John  ! 
you  young  rogue,  I've  read  in  a  poem  what  you  did ! 
—  made  love  to  Priscilla  Mullins,  when  Capt.  Miles 
Standish  was  going  to  ask  her  to  be  his  second  wife, 
and  sent  }'ou  to  do  the  errand  for  him.  Naught}', 
naughty  3'outh !  But  Priscilla  knew  pretty  well  the 
feelings  of  your  heart,  John,  and  knew  very  well  the 
feelings  of  her  own,  or  she  would  never  have  dared  to 
ask  that  question,  so  famous  in  story,  "  Wliy  don't  you 
speak  for  yourself,  John?'9  Mr.  Longfellow  has  told 
us  all  about  your  wedding ;  and  how,  when  taking 
home  the  bride, 

"Alden  the  thoughtful,  the  careful,  so  happy,  so  proud  of 

Priscilla, 
Brought  out  his  snow-white  steer,  obeying  the  hand  of  his 

master, 

Led  by  a  cord  that  was  tied  to  an  iron  ring  in  his  nostrils, 
Covered  with  crimson  cloth,  and  a  cushion  placed  for  a  saddle. 
She  should  not  walk,  lie  said,  through  the  dust  and  the  heat 

of  the  noonday." 


200 


A  STRANGER  IN  PILGRIM-LAND, 


Little  Mehitable  Winslow's  shoes  may  also  be  seen 
here, — stiff,  clumsy,  black,  cunning,  peaked  things 
they  are,  with  their  turned-up  toes ;  likewise  old 
pocket-books,  dishes,  a  spur,  a  gourd-shell,  a  lock 
taken  from  the  house  of  Miles  Standish,  and  various 
articles  besides. 

Cross  over  now  to  the  other  case.  What  little  ship 
is  that  on  top?  Ah  !  a  model  of  "The  Mayflower." 
I  am  glad  to  see  a  model  of  "  The  Mayflower."  By  no 
means  a  clipper  ship  was  she. 

This  case  contains  mostly  Indian  relics,  such  as 
tomahawks,  kettles,  mortars,  pestles,  axes,  all  made  of 

stone ;  also  a  string  of 
' '  wampum , "  or  Indian 
money,  which  is  simply 
shells,  polished  and 
rounded.  And  here,  of 
all  thingG  in  the  world! 
is  an  Indian  doll,  made 
of — I  don't  know  what ; 
perhaps  hardened  clay. 
It  is  a  clumsy-looking 
thing  for  a  toy.  I  see 
plenty  of  Indian  arrows, 
and  up  there  on  the 
highest  shelf  a  sort  of 
helmet  labelled  King 
DOLL.  Philip's  cap.  The  gen 

uineness  of  this  relic  is 

doubted.  King  Philip  was  a  famous  Indian  warrior, 
who  gave  the  whites  a  deal  of  trouble,  until  at  last  Col. 
Church  caught  him  in  a  swamp.  Col.  Church  was  a 


AND   WHAT   HE   SAW.  201 

mighty  man  to  catch  Indians.  He  used  to  complain, 
though,  that  they  sometimes  slipped  out  of  his  hands, 
because,  on  account  of  their  going  nearly  naked,  "there 
ivas  nothing  to  hold  on  by  but  their  hair."  King  Philip 
was  caught  at  last,  though,  by  this  valiant  Col.  Church  ; 
and,  if  anybody  doesn't  believe  it,  why  here  is  his  own 
pocket-book,  marked  "  Col.  Benjamin  Church  ;"  and 
here  is  the  very  gun-barrel  of  his  gun. 

Now  one  last  look,  and  then  for  a  walk  to  find  those 
"  sweet  springs  of  water  "  and  "  little  running  brooks  " 
on  account  of  which  the  Pilgrims  settled  in  this  spot. 
Good-b}",  precious  relics !  and  good-by,  you  old  arm 
chairs  wherein  sat  those  men  of  blessed  memory ! 

"  Their  greeting  very  soft, 
Good-morrow  very  kind : 
How  sweet  it  sounded  oft, 
Before  we  were  refined ! 
Humility  their  care, 
Their  failings  very  few. 
My  heart,  how  kind  their  manners  were 
When  this  old  chair  was  new!" 


DRAMAS  AND  DIALOGUES. 


203 


THE  GYPSIES, -A  MAY-DAY  DKAMA, 


CHAHACTEKS. 

LADY  GASOLINE.  FLORA,  little  daughter  of  LADY  CARO 
LINE.  MARGERY,  her  maid,  an  elderly  person.  ELSIE,  a  young 
girl  in  attendance  upon  FLORA.  TRAMP,  dressed  as  an  old 
gypsy-man.  TRAMP'S  WIFE,  dressed  as  an  old  gypsy-woman. 
TRAMP'S  DAUGHTER  PEG,  dressed  as  a  gypsy-girl.  TOM- 
KINS,  a  showman.  A  BLIND  FIDDLER,  old  and  gray.  GIRLS 
and  BOYS,  who  dance  the  May-dance,  and  sing  May-songs. 

SCENE  I.  — LADY  C.  reclining  in   arm-chair.     Enter 
MARGERY  with  vase  of  flowers. 

LADY  C.  How  beautiful,  Margery !  Did  little  Flora 
help  3rou  gather  them  ? 

MARGERY.  Yes,  my  lady.  Miss  Flora — why,  Miss 
Flora,  she  do  frisk  about  so,  pulls  Elsie  here,  and  then 
there,  — u  Now  this  flower,  Elsie  !  "  and  "  Now  this 
nice  one,  Elsie!"  That  be  a  most  wonderful  child, 
nry  lady :  she  be  playful  like  a  kitten,  and  gentle,  too, 
like  a  pet  lamb. 

LADY  C.  (anxiously).  Ah!  already  I  regret  having 
given  her  permission  to  go  with  Elsie  to  the  green. 
But  she  longed  so  to  see  the  May-dances ! 

205 


206       THE  GYPSIES.  —  A  MAY-DAY  DRAMA. 

MARGERY.  Oh,  never  fear,  my  lady!  There  isn't 
anywhere  a  faithfuller  little  maid  than  Elsie :  she  will 
not  let  Miss  Flora  out  of  her  sight.  But  nobody  could 
wish  Miss  Flora  out  of  sight,  she  is  such  a  little  angel. 
Indeed  and  in  truth,  my  lady,  in  all  the  world  can't  be 
found  a  child  sweet-tempered  like  her. 

LADY  C.  Oh,  do  not  call  her  an  angel,  good  Mar 
gery  !  call  her  a  lamb  or  a  kitten,  if  you  will,  or  even 
a  squirrel,  but  never  an  angel. 

(Children's  voices  outside.     Enter  FLORA,  singing  and 

skipping.     ELSIE  follows  quietly.) 
FLORA.     O  mamma  !  see  her  wreaths  and  garlands, 
and  the  white  dress  she  has  on  for  the  May-day  dances  ! 
Doesn't  she  look  lovely,  mamma  ?  —  oh,  just  as  lovely  as 

—  oh,  I  don't  know  ! 

LADY  C.  (smiling) .  Indeed  she  does,  my  dear.  El 
sie,  do  all  the  lassies  wear  white? 

ELSIE.     Yes,  my  lady,  white,  with  right  gay  garlands. 

FLORA.  Good-by,  mamma:  it  is  time  to  go  now. 
(Goes  to  her  mother.) 

LADY  C.  O  Elsie!  will  you  take  good  care?  She 
never  went  far  from  me  before.  I  shall  be  very  anx 
ious  ! 

ELSIE.     Yes,  indeed,  my  lady,  I  will  take  great  care. 

FLORA.     And  I  will  stay  with  Elsie,  and  be  so  good  ! 

—  oh,  just  as  good  as  —  oh,  you  can't  think ! 

(A  company  of  singers  heard  outside,  as  if  passing  at 

a  distance.) 

FLORA  (skipping,  and  clapping  hands).  Oh,  hark, 
mamma !  do  hark  to  the  May-songs !  Come,  Elsie, 
quick !  Good-by,  mamma ! 


THE  GYPSIES.  —  A  MAY-DAY  DRAMA.       207 

LADY  C.  (embracing  her) .  Good-by,  darling  !  good- 
by  !  [Exit  F.  and  E. 

MARGERY.     I  must  see  to  their  lunch-baskets. 

[Exit  MARGERY.     Curtain  falls. 

SCENE  II.  —  Pretended  gypsies  seated  in  a  tent,  or  on  the 
ground.  OLD  WOMAN  counting  over  silver,  OLD  MAN 
looking  on.  He  is  dressed  in  old,  ill-fitting  clothes. 
WOMAN  has  a  black  handkerchief  wound  about  her 
head,  shabby  dress,  blue  stockings,  and  something 
bright  around  her  neck. 

MAN.     Wai,  old  Beauty  Spot,  how  many  d'ye  count  ? 

WOMAN.  Eight  spoons,  six  forks,  five  thimbles,  one 
cup. 

MAN.     Is  that  all  we've  took  on  this  beat? 

WOMAN.  Not  by  somethin' !  Look  ye  here,  dad ! 
(Holds  up  a  ladle.) 

MAN  (delighted) .  Now  jou  be  the  beater  !  (Rubs 
his  hands.)  Let's  take  a  look.  (Examines  it.)  Real, 
is't?  But  where's  Peg? 

WOMAN.  Off  on  her  tramps  about  the  grand  house 
yonder.  Owner's  away  :  nobody  left  but  my  lady  and 
servants.  Never  a  better  time,  daddy. 

MAN.  Nor  a  better  day.  Tompkins  will  set  up  his 
show  tent.  Everybody  stirring.  Pockets  to  pick, 
fortunes  to  tell ! 

WOMAN  (rubbing  her  hands) .  Lads  and  lassies  dan 
cing  on  the  green,  old  uns  looking  on,  nobody  taking 
care  of  the  spoons 'n  the  house. 

MAN  (slapping  her  on  the  shoulder) .  We're  in  luck, 
old  woman,  — in  luck  !  (Enter  PEG,  dressed  in  red  bod 
ice,  black  skirt,  red  stockings,  light  blue  handkerchief  on 


208       THE  GYPSIES.  —  A  MAY-DAY  DRAMA. 

her  head,  pinned  under  her  chin.)  Here  comes  Peg, 
now.  Wai,  my  Nimble  Fingers,  any  game  to-day? 

PEG  (takes  a  few  articles  from  her  pocket) .  Not 
much  now,  dad,  but  some  a-coming,  if  you  an'  her 
(points  to  WOMAN)  be  up  to  it. 

MAN  (earnestly).     What's  that? 

PEG.     Oh  !  a  nice  little  job. 

MAN  and  WOMAN  (earnestly) .     Speak  out,  gal. 

PEG.  Wai,  you  see  I  walked  in  through  the  park, 
and  along  by  the  hedge-row,  and  into  the  kitchen-gar 
den,  thinkin'  to  go  boldly  in  at  the  back-door,  as  you 
told  me,  to  ask  for  cold  bits. 

BOTH  (bending  eagerly  forward) .     Yes. 

PEG..  But  jest  when  I  got  my  mouth  open  to  say, 
' '  Charity  for  my  poor  sick  mother  ' '  — 

BOTH.     Wai? 

PEG.     Why,  a  servant  ordered  me  off. 

MAN.     An'  what  then  ? 

PEG.  Why,  then  I  turned  to  come  away.  But  next 
I  sees  — 

WOMAN.     Sees  what? 

PEG.     Somethin'  in  our  line. 

BOTH  (impatiently).     Tell  away,  can't  yer? 

PEG.  Sees  my  lady's  child  a-walkin'  out  with  her 
maid. 

WOMAN.     Wai,  what  o'  that? 

PEG.  You  keep  quiet,  an'  I'll  tell;  jest  you  keep 
on  a-interruptin' ,  an'  I'm  mum's  a  fish. 

MAN  (to  WOMAN).  Hush  up,  now,  can't  yer?  (To 
PEG.)  Sees  what? 

PEG.  I  seed  as  how  little  miss  was  a-dressed  out  in  all 
her  finery,  —  her  velvet,  an'  her  silks,  an'  gold  beads  an' 


THE  GYPSIES.  —  A  MAY-DAY  DRAMA.       209 

bracelets .  (  Clasps  throat  and  wrists . )  Very  good  things 
to  have.  (Old  couple  nod  approvingly  at  each  other.) 

MAN.  Mcbby  they  be  (holding  up  old  bag)  ;  but 
how  be  they  a-goin'  to  jump  in  this  'ere? 

PEG.     There  ye  go  agin  a-interruptin' . 

WOMAN  (to  MAN).  Hush  up,  dad!  Let  the  gal 
speak,  can't  yer? 

.PEG.  Then  I  watches  to  find  out  where  wud  they  be 
a-goin'  ter  (old  couple  nod  to  each  other),  an'  I  sees 
'em  take  the  path  down  by  the  hedge-row.  So  I  creeps 
along  softly,. a-tiptoe,  on  t'other  side,  just  like  this 
(shows  how  she  crept  along) ,  a-peepin'  through. 

WOMAN  (rubbing  her  hands  together).  Sharp  gal 
you  be,  Peg. 

MAN  (to  WOMAN)  .     Keep  still ;  don't  bother  her. 

PEG.  When  they  goes  down  on  the  grass  to  rest,  I 
goes  down  too,  on  t'other  side,  ye  know,  to  rest,  — so. 
(Sits  down.) 

MAN  (laughing).  Yes,  yes  :  so  ye  did.  Poor  little 
gal,  wasn't  used  to  trampin'  ! 

WOMAN  (to  MAN).  Gabble,  gabble,  gabble !  The 
gal' 11  neveii  git  done. 

MAN.     Tell  away,  Peg. 

PEG.  I  listens,  an'  I  finds  little  miss  is  a-goin'  with 
her  maid  to  sec  the  dances.  There,  I've  started  the 
game  :  let's  see  ye  foller  it  up. 

(Old  couple  sit  in  silence  for  a  few  moments,  turning 
over  the  silver.) 

MAN  (tlioughtfully) .  'Tis  deep  water;  but  I  sees 
through. 

PEG  (bending  forward) .  Let's  hear.  (WOMAN  lis 
tens.) 


210       THE   GYPSIES.  —  A  MAY-DAY  DRAMA. 


MAN.  Tomkins's  show  draws  all  the  crowd,  missy 
among  'em. 

PEG.     Go  on,  dad. 

MAN  (rising).  They  two,  missy  and  maid,  stands 
agapin'  at  it,  —  so.  (Imitates.)  You  creeps  in  be 
tween,  —  so.  (Imitates.)  I  stays  outside. 

PEG.     Yes,  yes ! 

MAN.  In  the  middle  of  it  I  gets  myself  knocked 
down  outside,  and  groans  and  roars,  "Help,  help! 
thieves !  murder!  " 

WOMAN  (eagerly) .     Then  everybody'll  run. 

MAN.  Then  ever}rbody'll  run.  Peg  catches  hold  o' 
little  miss,  runs  her  off.  I  say,  "  I'll  take  care  of 
yer."  Neat  job,  hey?  (Rubs  hands.) 

PEG  (briskly) .  Then  I'll  lend  her  some  of  my  clothes, 
'cause  they's  better  for  her,  you  know,  an'  help  her  eat 
what's  in  the  buful  basket ;  an'  she'll  be  my  little  sis 
ter,  an'  she'll  tramp  with  us  (rises)  an'  our  merry, 
merry  crew.  (Sings.  Old  couple  join  in  chorus,  and 
all  keep  time  with  feet  and  hands.) 


Oh !  we're  a  merry  gyp-sy  crew,  Roaming  all  the  country  thro', 


Plenty  to  eat  and  little  to  do.Roaming  thro'  the  wildwood.  Sing  ri  fa  la  li 


zEz  3LZ3::3i 

— - =^*'~*  -  -«-*- 


lu  li  oh !  Plenty  to  eat  and  little  to  do,Roaming  thro'  the  wildwood. 


THE   GYPSIES. — A  MAY-DAY  DRAMA.       211 


Want  and  care  we  never  know : 
Sun  may  sliine,  or  winds  may  blow; 
All  the  same  we  come  and  go, 

Roaming  through  the  wildwood. 
Sing  ri  fa  la  li  lu  li  oh! 
Plenty  to  eat,  and  little  to  do, 

Roaming  through  the  wildwood. 


SCENE  III. — Enter  FLORA  and  ELSIE,  hand  in  hand. 
Both  have  flowers;  and  ELSIE  carries  a  pretty  lunch- 
basket. 

FLORA.  What  pretty  flowers  there  were  in  that 
meadow  !  Why,  I  wanted  every  one  ! 

ELSIE.  Then  we'd  have  to  fetch  a  wagon  to  carry 
them  home  in,  I  guess. 

FLORA.  A  wagonful  of  flowers  !  What  would  mam 
ma  say  to  that,  I  wonder? 

ELSIE.  All  the  vases  together  wouldn't  half  hold 
'em. 

FLORA.  Then  I'd  put  them  in  my  little  crib,  and 
have  them  for  my  bed. 

.    ELSIE.     Margery  wouldn't  spread  her  white  sheets 
on  such  a  bed  as  that. 

FLORA.  But  I  could  take  flowers  for  bed-clothes, 
and  smell  them  all  night.  Oh  !  what  a — (stops  sudden 
ly,  and  listens).  I  hear  music.  Hark  !  (Music heard 
faintly,  as  if  afar  off.)  O  Elsie!  they're  coming, 
they're  coming  !  Hark  !  don't  }TOU  hear  the  singing? 

ELSIE.  Yes  (looking  in  the  direction  of  the  music)  : 
they're  marching  this  way. 

(Singing  comes  gradually  nearer,  until  the  chorus  is 
heard  outside.  Enter  a  procession  of  girls  and  boys, 


212       THE  GYPSIES. — A  MAY-DAY  DRAMA. 

blind  fiddler  following.  Boys  are  dressed  in  white 
trousers,  with  bright  or  striped  jackets,  flowers  at  the 
button-hole;  girls  in  white  ^  with  garlands.  All 
march  round  the  stage,  singing ;  then  either  eight  or 
sixteen  of  them  form  a  circle  for  dancing  the  May- 
dance.  At  intervals,  in  some  pretty  figure,  the 
dancers  pause,  and  sing  a  May -song,  in  which  all 
join.  Dancing  ends  ivith  a  march,  which  is  inter 
rupted  by  a  girl  rushing  in  from  the  show.) 

SONG  (briskly,  to  "  The  Poacher's  Song,"  or  any 
lively  tune) . 

We  come,  we  come,  with  dance  and  song, 

With  hearts  and  voices  gay ; 
We  come,  we  come,  a  happy  throng; 

For  now  it  is  beautiful  May. 

We've  lingered  by  the  brookside 

To  find  the  fairest  flowers ; 
We've  rambled  through  the  meadows  wide 

These  sunny,  sunny  hours. 

(All  move  round.} 

CHORUS.     Oh!  we'll  dance  and  sing  around  the  ring 

With  footsteps  light  and  gay; 
Oh!  we'll  dance  and  sing  around  the  ring; 
For  now  'tis  the  beautiful  May. 

GIRL  (rushing  in) .  Oh,  come !  do  come  and  see 
the  show  !  'Tis  the  funniest  show  ! 

ALL  TOGETHER.  Where?  where?  (Pressing  about 
her.) 

GIRL  (pointing) .  Over  yonder  by  the  wood.  Only 
a  penny.  Come ! 


THE  GYPSIES.  —  A  MAY-BAY  DKAMA.       213 

ALL  TOGETHER  (or  nearly  so).  Yes:  let's  go! 
Come  !  Only  a  penny?  We'll  all  go  ! 

(All  rush  out,  ELSIE  leading  FLORA.     Curtain  falls.) 

SCENE  IV.  —  TOMKINS,  in  flashy  costume,  preparing 
for  the  show.  There  should  be  several  objects,  sup 
posed  to  be  statues  or  animals,  covered  with  white 
cloth.  The  animals  may  be  boys  in  various  posi 
tions.  The  coverings  ivill  not  be  removed,  as  the  shoiv 
is  to  be  interrupted.  TOMKINS  moves  about,  peeping 
under  the  coverings,  dusting  the  statues,  patting  and 
quieting,  and  perhaps  feeding,  the  animals.  He  holds 
in  one  hand  a  string  which  is  attached  to  one  of  them. 
Enter  TOM  THUMB  and  his  BRIDE,  arm  in  arm,  fol- 
loived  by  his  aged  parents  and  maiden  aunt.  (Five 
little  children  must  be  dressed  up  to  represent  these.) 
TOMKINS  helps  them  to  a  high  platform  at  the  back 
part.  Old  lady  is  knitting  a  doll's  stocking.  Enter 
crowd  of  May -dancers,  PEG  among  them.  She  tries 
several  times  to  separate  F.LORA  from  Elsie  while 
they  are  listening  to  TOMKINS,  and  finally  succeeds. 
(This  scene  may  easily  be  lengthened  by  adding  other 
figures  to  the  show,  such  as  a  giant,  or  curious  ani 
mals,  &c.) 

TOMKINS  (arranging  the  spectators,  speaks  rapidly) . 
Stan'  reg'lar,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  stan'  reg'lar,  and 
let  the  tall  ones  look  over  the  short  ones  ;  for  if  the 
tall  ones  don't  git  behind  the  short  ones,  and  the  short 
ones  gits  behind  the  tall  ones,  then  how's  the  short 
ones  a-goin'  to  look  over  the  tall  ones?  Ladies  and 
gentlemen,  I  have  the  honor  to  show  you  the  only  'xhi- 


214       THE   GYPSIES.  —  A  MAY-DAY  DEAMA. 

bition  of  the  kind  on  record.  On  this  'casion  'tis  not  a 
talkin'  'xhibition.  Six  talkin'  'xhibitions  they've  done 
to-day.  Do  I  want  'em  to  die  on  my  'ands?  Do  I 
want  to  close  their  'xpiring  eyes,  an'  say  —  an'  say  — • 
farewell,  my  dears?  No.  Let  'em  live  to  d'light  the 
world,  an'  to  'dorn  —  to  'dorn — my  'xhibition.  (The 
animal  gets  uneasy.  TOMKINS  jerks  the  string.)  Sh — 
sh —  !  your  time '11  come  when  the  Thumbs  is  all  done. 
Ladies  and  gentlemen,  you  see  before  you  the  descend 
ants  of  the  real  Tom  Thumb,  who  lived  in  story-books 
a  thousand  years  ago.  Their  grandfather  far  removed 
was  carried  in  his  master's  waistcoat-pocket,  and  swal 
lowed  by  a  cow.  (Animal  steps.  He  pulls  the  string.) 
Sh — sh  !  They  would  speak  to  the  audyence  :  but  six 
talkin'  'xhibitions  they've  done  to-day  ;  an'  their  healths 
must  be  looked  to,  as  their  constitootions  compares 
with  their  sizes,  and  'tis  very  nat'ral  they'd  be  short- 
breath'd.  The  old  lady,  as  }TOU  see,  is  knittin'  a  stock- 
in'  for  her  grandchild  that  lives  in  Siam.  The  old 
gentleman  takes  his  pinch  of  snuff,  an'  would  smoke 
his  pipe,  but  —  ladies  present.  The  maiden  aunt  is 
neat  about  her  dress  ;  and  that's  why  she's  smoothin' 
out  the  wrinkles,  and  rubbin'  off  mud-spots.  Tom 
Thumb  is  very  fond  of  his  bride  ;  an'  you  won't  think 
strange  of  his  strokin'  her  curls,  an'  lookin'  at  her  face 
in  admiration.  (Animals  move  a  little.)  But  my  an'- 
mals  is  uneasy,  and  I  must  also  proceed  to  uncover  the 
statuarys.  Thumb  family  may  march  round  and  take 
their  leave.  (They  march  round  and  go  out,  each 
turning  at  the  door  to  salute  the  audience.)  I  will  now 
proceed  to  uncover  the  famous,  unheard-of,  wonderful 
animal  called —  (Deep  groans  heard  outside.  u  Help! 


THE   GYPSIES.  —  A  MAY-DAY  DRAMA.       215 

thieves!   murder!")     Don't  be   uneasy!     (All   rush 
out.     PEG  runs  off  with  Flora.)  [Curtain  fails. 


SCENE   V.  —  LADY   CAROLINE  reclining   in   her  chair. 
She  rings  a  bell.     Enter  MARGERY. 

LADY  C.  You  may  bring  that  round  table  nearer  to 
me,  Margery :  Miss  Flora  and  I  will  take  our  tea  to 
gether.  What  a  treat  it  will  be  for  her ! 

MARGERY  (bringing  the  table).  Yes,  my  lady. 
(Spreads  cloth.) 

LADY  C.  She  will  be  eager  to  tell  all  that  has 
happened,  and  I  shall  be  just  as  eager  to  hear.  (MAR 
GERY  fetches  plates,  &c.)  Bring  her  small  china  mug, 
Margery  (she  likes  that  best)  ;  and  bring  her  low  rock 
ing-chair. 

MARGERY.  Yes,  my  lady.  The  little  dear  will  be 
so  tired  !  (Brings  the  things.) 

LADY  C.  Place  the  chair  near  me.  Is  the  supper 
all  ready?  What  an  appetite  the  little  traveller  will 
have  to-night ! 

]\LARGERY.     Every  thing  is  ready,  my  lady. 

LADY  C.  And  fetch  her  slippers  lined  with  down. 
They  will  be  soft  to  her  tired  feet.  Ah,  how  many  steps 
those  feet  have  taken  since  she  kissed  me  good -by! 
(MARGERY  brings  slippers,  and  places  them  in  front 
of  the  chair.)  So.  That  is  right.  Now  that  all  is 
read}r,  how  long  seems  every  moment !  Margery,  go 
stand  by  the  upper  window,  and  bring  me  word  when 
you  catch  the  first  sight  of  them  coming  along  by  the 
hedgerow. 


216       THE   GYPSIES.  —  A  MAY-DAY  DRAMA. 

MARGERY.  I  will,  my  lady.  I'll  watch,  and  not 
leave  the  window,  —  not  for  one  single  moment. 

[Exit  MARGERY.     Curtain  falls. 

SCENE  VI.  — TRAMP  and  his  WIFE.  Old  bags,  bundles, 
and  baskets  lying  about.  MAN  is  binding  an  old 
shoe  to  his  foot  with  a  strip  of  doth.  Foot  is  on 
the  shoe,  not  in  it.  WOMAN  is  picking  over  rags  of 
different  colors. 

WOMAN.  Wai,  ole  man,  here  we  bees  agin.  'Tis  a 
year  ago  this  blessed  day  since  Peg  'ticed  the  little  gal 
from  Tomkins's  show. 

MAN.  'Twouldn't  ha'  been  a  year,  mammy,  only 
we  got  no  news  o'  the  reward.  Fifty  guineas,  an'  no 
questions  asked.  Wal-a-day !  Many's  the  weary 
tramp  we's  had  that  we  needn't  a'. 

WOMAN.     An'  many's  the  trinket  I'll  buy. 

MAN.  Now,  ole  Beauty  Spot,  you  don't  git  the 
spendin'  o'  that  gold  ! 

WOMAN.  I  don't !  Wai,  we'll  see  !  I  don't,  do  I? 
—  humph ! 

MAN.  But  where's  Peg?  Meet  us  by  this  wood, 
she  said.  An'  'tis  past  the  time  set.  She  must  a' 
reached  the  hall  two  days  agone. 

WOMAN.  If  I'd  a'  had  my  sa}r,  the  child  should  ha* 
been  sent  by  some  other  body  ;  but  Peg  she  would  go 
along. 

MAN.  'Tis  a  marcy  an'  she  don't  git  fast  under 
lock  an'  key. 

WOMAN.  Wai,  the  child's  back  to  where  she  belongs  ; 
an'  lucky  she  be  ;  for  our  Peg,  that  be  a  great  deal  too 


THE  GYPSIES.  —  A   MAY-DAY  DRAMA.       217 

smart  for  us,  will  go  to  mind  every  crook  o'  that  young 
un's  finger,  an'  worse'n  that.  Now  I'll  tell  JG.  I 
harked  one  night,  late  it  was,  with  the  stars  all  so 
bright,  we  inside  the  tent,  they  two  out,  nobody  stir 
ring,  no  noise,  only  corn  rustlin'  a-near  us,  an'  a  little 
matter  of  a  breeze  in  the  trees  ;  an'  what  does  I  hear  ? 
"VVlry,  that  young  'un  a-tellin'  our  Peg  about  the 
angels,  an'  more  besides,  an'  what  good  was,  an'  what 
wicked  was.  Does  I  want  a  gal  o'  mine  to  hear  the 
like?  No,  I  doesn't.  Peg  ain't  the  gal  she  was 
(shaking  her  head) .  No,  no !  She  ain't  up  to  half 
the  smart  tricks.  (Enter  PEG.) 

MAX  and  WOMAN.  The  money !  The  gold,  the 
gold  !  Where's  the  gold? 

PEG.     The  lady  wants  to  see  you  at  the  hall. 

BOTH.     Ha ! 

WOMAN.     Be  we  fools  ? 

MAN.  She  wants,  does  she? — ha,  ha  !  She  wants  ! 
—  he,  he,  he  ! 

PEG.  I  want,  then.  And  the  gold  is  ready  for  you 
there. 

WOMAN.     What  be  we  a-goin'  to  the  hall  for? 

PEG.     She  has  a  favor  to  ask. 

WOMAN.     Yes  :  the  favor  o'  shuttin'  us  up. 

PEG.  The  favor  o'  let-tin*  me  be  servant  to  Miss 
Flora.  (WOMAN  nods  to  MAN.) 

MAN.     Have  more  sense,  gal. 

WOMAN.  O  Peg !  an'  would  ye  go  from  us,  an'  to 
be  a  slave? 

MAN  (picking  up  bundles) .  'Tis  all  a  trap  to  nab 
us. 

PEG.     No,  there  be  no  trap. 


2 IS       THE   GYPSIES.  —  A  MAY-DAY  DBAMA. 

WOMAN.     An'  -what  use  of  our  seein'  the  lacty? 

PEG.  She  be  loath  to  keep  anybody's  child  without 
consent.  The  little  un  begs  me  stay  ;  an'  I  must. 

WOMAN  (entreatingty) .  Don't,  Peg  !  Let  her  go. 
She  ben't  one  o'  our  sort. 

PEG.  I  can't ;  an'  the  truth  must  be  spoken  to  ye. 
I'm  tired  o'  trampin',  tired  o'  beggin'  an'  thievin',  an* 
skulkin'  about;  an',  what's  more,  I  can't  lose  sight 
o'  her. 

WOMAN  (sorrowfully) .  O  Peg  !  An'  how  could  the 
little  un  bewritch  ye  so  ? 

PEG.  I  can't  tell  that.  How  can  I  tell  what  makes 
me  pine  for  a  sight  o'  her  sweet  face,  an'  why  'tis  that 
the  sound  o'  her  sweet  voice  touches  me  here  (places 
hand  on  her  heart) ,  an'  why  'tis  I  weep  when  she  tells 
me  of  the  angels  and  holy  things?  Will  ye  go,  or  no? 
(Moves  totvards  door.) 

MAN  to  WOMAN  (confidentially) .  Between  you 
an'  me,  I'd  sooner  have  Peg  there.  Don't  ye  see? 
(Claps  hand  on  her  shoulder.)  Many's  the  nice  bit 
she'll  help  us  to,  or  a  silver  penny,  or  a  spoon. 

WOMAN.  That  she  won't.  An',  if  she'd  do't,  ain't 
we  got  money  enough  wi'  all  that  gold?  I'd  sooner 
keep  my  gal.  (Folds  arms,  and  looks  down  sorrowful 
ly.)  But  'twon't  be  for  long.  (Looks  up  more  cheer- 
fully.)  Peg'll  come  back  to  us.  She'll  soon  pine  for 
the  sweet  woods  agin'.  (Ties  up  her  bundles.) 

MAN  (contemptuously).  Enough!  —  enough  gold! 
(Picks  up  baskets.)  What  can  the  old  gal  mean? 
Enough  money? — ha,  ha,  ha  !  Enough  !  — he,  he,  he  ! 

[Curtain  falls. 


THE  GYPSIES.  —  A  MAY-DAY  DRAMA.       219 

SCENE  VII.  (chiefly  a  tableau) .  —  LADY  C.  sits  with 
her  arm  round  FLORA.  MARGERY  arranging  the  fur 
niture.  Enter  gypsies,  conducted  by  PEG.  LADY  C., 
at  sight  of  them,  shudders,  and  turns  away.  MAR 
GERY  keeps  them  at  a  distance. 

MARGERY.  Stand  back,  stand  back  !  Don't  ye  see 
nry  lady  almost  faints  at  sight  of  ye  ?  (Music,  heard 
afar  off,  comes  gradually  nearer.) 

LADY  C.  (listening).  What  music  do  I  hear,  Mar 
gery? 

MARGERY.  'Tis  the  May-party,  my  lady.  They 
come  to  welcome  Miss  Flora  back  with  a  cheerful  song. 

LADY  C.     Bid  them  enter,  Margery. 

(MARGERY  goes  to  the  door.  Enter  May-party  and 
blind  fiddler.  They  are  arranged  by  MARGERY. 
Gypsies  watch  the  proceedings,  —  OLD  GYPSY  leaning 
on  his  staff  with  both  hands;  OLD  WOMAN,  rather 
sullen,  stands  with  folded  arms.  PEG  moves  softly 
along-,  and  sinks  upon  the  floor  near  FLORA.  ELSIE 
is  among  the  singers,  but  stands  silent  with  downcast 
looks.  MARGERY  motions  for  the  young  people  to 
sing,  and,  when  they  begin,  holds  corner  of  apron  to 
her  eyes.) 

CLOSING  SONG. 

Home  again,  home  again ! 

All  her  wanderings  o'er; 
At  home,  sweet  home  again,  to  dwell 

With  loving  friends  once  more ! 

Flowers,  show  your  fairest  hues, 

Make  the  meadows  gay; 
Dear  little  birds,  oh !  carol  forth 

Your  sweetest  songs  to-day. 


220        THE  GYPSIES.  —  A  MAY-DAY  DRAMA. 

CHOEUS.    For  home  again,  home  again, 
Her  weary  wanderings  o'er, 
At  home,  sweet  home  again,  she  dwells 
With  loving  friends  once  more. 


\_Curtainfalls. 


A  DECEMBER  CHARADE.-  (FAREWELL,) 


FIRST  SrLLABLE:  Fare. 
CHARACTERS. 

JOE  and  NED,  two  young  clerks  from  the  city.  JOE  is  in, 
rough  sea-clothes,  —  tarpaulin  hat,  stout  boots,  trousers  tucked 
in;  carries  cod-lines,  oil-clothes,  and  a  rope-handled  bucket. 
NED  is  in  gentleman's  fishing-costume;  wears  broad-brimmed 
straw  hat,  carries-reed  pole,  lunch-basket,  &c.  They  enter  from, 
opposite  doors. 

JOE.  How  fares  ye,  Ned  ?  Been  a-fishing  ?  So've  I. 
Let's  sit  down  on  the  bank  here  and  talk  it  over. 
(Throws  himself  down.  NED  spreads  out  his  handker 
chief,  then  seats  himself  upon  it.) 

NED  (affectedly,  and  with  a  sigh).  Ah,  well!  or, 
rather,  ah,  ill !  Another  day  of  vacation  gone.  Already 
the  store — the  busy,  crowded,  everlasting  store  — 
looms  up  before  me.  Customers  seem  beckoning  me 
away.  I  hear,  methinks,  the  rustle  of  cambrics  min 
gling  with  the  rustling  of  the  leaves,  and  —  and — 

JOE.    And  the  birds  sing  out  "Cash,  cash !"  don't 
they  ?     O  fiddle-de-dee !  the  store  is  fifty  miles  off,  - 
fiftj7  miles  ;  and  six  days  !     Another  day  gone  ?  —  well, 

221 


222  A  DECEMBER   CHARADE. 

don't  fret  for  that.  Didn't  you  get  enough  for  it? 
Now,  I  never  fret  about  letting  a  piece  of  goods  go,  if 
I  get  the  worth  of  it. 

NED.  Really,  Joseph,  I  don't  see  what  selling  goods 
has  to  do  with  the  subject . 

JOE.  Why,  you've  let  your  day  go.  Old  Time  took 
it.  He  buys  up  a  good  many  of  'em ;  but  he  pa3's. 
You  got  the  value  of  your  article  :  you  took  your  pay 
in  taking  comfort.  Fair  trade  enough. 

NED.  Well,  you  may  talk  ;  but  the  day  is  gone,  and 
it  will  never  return  (sighs) . 

JOE.  But,  if  we  live  till  to-morrow,  there'll  another 
one  come:  .leastways,  I  hope  so;  for  I've  a  plan 
ahead.  (Earnestly.)  I'll  do  it:  I  will !  I  certainly 
will,  dogs  or  no  dogs,  — unless  the  sea  dries  up  ;  and 
then  I'll  walk.  But  how  was  river-fishing? 

NED.  Oh,  fair  !  that  is  to  say,  reasonably  fair,  for 
the  first  attempt. 

JOE.     Fine  day  you  had. 

NED.  Charm/ing  day.  In  the  morning  we  rowed  up 
stream,  with  Nature  smiling  all  around  us,  —  of  course 
I  mean  the  dewy  fields,  sprinkled  with  flowers  ;  and 
anon  we  glided  through  the  leafy  woods,  where  the 
birds  sang  melodiously.  All  was  fair  and  lovely. 

JOE.  Having  fair  wind's  the  main  thing:  the  rest 
is  well  enough.  So  you  made  an  nil-day  trip  of  it? 

NED.  Yes :  a  really  charming  little  excursion,  and 
the  presence  of  the  fair  sex  —  hem  ! 

JOE.  Made  it  still  more  really  charming.  Yes,  I 
know.  They  usually  have  their  charms  about  them. 

NED.  Exactly.  And  at  noon  we  landed,  and  spread 
our  repast  under  the  shade  of  a  spreading  oak,  and 


A   DECEMBER   CHARADE.  223 

there  partook  of  cold  chicken,  sandwiches,  and  fruits. 
At  the  hour  of  sunset,  with  a  fair  wind,  and  with  now 
and  then  a  song,  we  floated  calmly  down  the  stream. 

JOE.  All  serene.  Now  I  took  it  in  the  rough. 
See !  Borrowed  real  sea-clothes,  and  sailed  on  the 
briii}'  sea.  Jingoes,  if  'twasn't  sport  off  the  Ledge  ! 

NED.     Seasick? 

JOE.  Hem !  WelF,  little  rily  doubling  "  Hook's 
Pint :  "  soon  over  it,  though,  and  relished  niy  lunch  — 
oh,  hugely !  None  of  your  chicken-fixin's  ;  real  fish 
ermen's  fare,  —  sea-biscuit  dipped  in  the  sea. 

NED.     Barbarous  fare,  I  should  call  that. 

JOE.  Not  a  bit.  Oh,  yes !  I'm  mistaken :  good 
many  bits.  Fish  bit  lively,  and  old  skipper  chowdered 
'em  right  out  o'  the  water :  then  we  got  into  a  school 
o'  mackerel,  and  so  brought  in  quite  a  fare  of  fish.  If 
we'd  only  landed  on  that  island —  But  I  mean  to 
(rubbing  his  hands),  dogs  or  no  dogs.  What  the 
dogs  do  I  care  !  Let  'em  yelp  ! 

NED.     Of  what  island  are  3-011  speaking? 

JOE.  "  Maiden  Island  "  some  call  it.  Skipper  said 
'twas  oftener  called  "  The  Isle  of  Dogs." 

NED.     Why  are  these  names  given  to  it? 

JOE.  Because  there  is  a  maiden  there,  of  course, 
and  dogs  abound.  But  I'll  land  (rubbing  his  hands 
excitedly).  I'll  attack  the  fort.  "  Let  dogs  delight," 
and  so  forth. 

NED.  I'm  curious  to  hear  more  of  this  isle  of  the 
sea. 

JOE.  Listen,  then,  and  I'll  toll  3-011  a  true  story : 
only  it  hasn't  any  end  to  it  yet.  But  I'll  make  an  end 
(earnestly),  —  I'm  resolved  upon  that, — unless  an 
earthquake  swallows  it  up. 


224  A  DECEMBER   CHARADE. 

NED.     Swallows  up  the  end  ! 

JOE.     The  island. 

NED.     Can't  you  explain?     (In  a  pet.) 

JOE.  Oh,  yes  !  Explain?  —  certainly.  Now  hark. 
In  the  middle  of  the  sea  —  that  is,  off  in  the  harbor  — 
stands  a  lonely  isle  ;  and  on  that  isle  stands  a  hut ;  and 
in  that  hut  dwells  a  stern  old  fisherman  ;  and  that  stern 
old  fisherman  owns  a  fair  daughter ;  and,  on  account 
of  the  island  being  flooded  with  admirers,  he  has  defend 
ed  it  with  dogs,  manned  it  with  dogs. 

NED.  Really  !  Now  that  isn't  quite  fair  in  the  old 
gentleman. 

JOE.  Fair?  Of  course  it  isn't!  But  I've  got  a 
plan.  I'll  land :  I  certainly  will,  if  every  dog  had 
as  many  heads  as  —  now,  what  was  that  dog's  name 
that  barked  down  in  that  dark  place  ?  —  no  matter  ;  and 
if  every  head  had  as  many  mouths,  I'll  land.  "  Faint 
heart  never  won  fair  lady." 

NED.     But  wiiat  if  they  all  fly  at  you? 

JOE.     Then  I'll  fly  at  them.     (Sings.) 

11  Let  dogs  delight 
To  bark  and  bite." 

(Slight  noise  of  rain  heard.) 

NED  (rising  hastily).  We  shall  be  caught  in  the 
shower.  (Going.)  Come. 

JOE  (rising  slowly) .  Oh,  let  it  rain,  let  it  rain ! 
Better  chance  of  fair  weather  to-morrow. 

NED  (passing  out).  But  will  you?  will  you  really 
dare  ? 

JOE.     Yes  :  none  but  the  brave  deserve  the  fair  ! 

[Exeunt  both. 

(Rain  may  be  made  by  dropping  peas  in  a  tin  pan  be 
hind  the  scenes.) 


A  DECEMBER   CHAEADE.  225 

SECOND  SYLLABLE:    Well. 

SCENE.  —  Out  of  doors.  Tools  lying  about.  MK. 
BENSON,  a  dark-whiskered  Yankee,  in  working-clothes 
and  overalls,  is  at  ivork  on  a  pump.  The  pump  is  a  < 
man  or  boy  incased  in  brown  paper.  He  is  topped 
by  a  bandboQfrcover,  or  by  any  thing  which  will  bear 
resemblance  to  the  capping  of  a  ivooden  pump.  One 
arm  is  used  for  the  pump-handle :  the  other,  as  far 
up  as  the  elbow,  represents  the  spout.  A  small  tuff 
should  be  put  underneath.  There  must  be  a  large 
bottle  of  water  hid  in  the  coat-sleeve,  with  the  thumb 
pressed  over  its  mouth  for  a  stopper.  At  the  proper 
time,  the  water  is  allowed  to  run  out.  (TJiis  opera 
tion  should  be  first  practised  in  the  anteroom.) 
While  MR.  BENSON  is  at  ivork,  SQUIRE  REED  enters. 
He  is  tuell  dressed;  has  gray  whiskers,  tall  hat,  and  a 
cane;  is  a  little  pompous  and  condescending. 

SQUIRE  REED.  Well,  Benson,  how  do  you  prosper? 
Always  at  work,  hey?  What !  covered  up  your  well? 

MR.  BENSON.  Yes,  and  got  in  a  pump  (tcorks  the 
handle)  ;  but  'twon't  draw.  Something's  the  matter. 

SQUIRE  R.  I'm  very  sorry ;  not  sorry  the  pump 
won't  draw,  but  sorry  to  lose  the  well,  — sorry,  I  mean, 
to  lose  it  out  of  the  landscape.  It  was  a  very  striking 
feature,  with  its  long  sweep. 

MR.  B.  Wai,  to  tell  the  truth,  it  did  go  agin  my 
feelings.  We'd  got  used  to  seeing  it.  My  gran'ther 
dug  it  and  stoned  it  up ;  and  I've  hoisted  up  a  good 
deal  o'  water  out  of  it  since  I  was  boy,  counting  wash 
ing-water  and  all.  But  then  'twas  a  heap  o'  trouble. 
(  Works  the  handle.)  Why  don't  the  critter  draw  ? 


226  A  DECEMBER   CHARADE. 

SQUIRE  R.     How  did  it  trouble  you  ? 

MR.  B.  (resting  on  the  pump).  Oh!  things  kept 
falling  down  it.  I'd  be  out  in  the  field,  working,  you 
know  ;  and  'twould  be  all  the  time,  "  Mr  Benson,  this 
thing's  tumbled  down  the  well,  and  that  thing's  tumbled 
down  the  well."  Then  I'd  leave,  and  run  ;  and  maybe 
'twould  be  my  little  gal's  doll,  or  bub's  hat,  or  clean 
clothes  off  the  h'ne.  And  all  the  neighbors  wanted  to 
hang  their  things  down  it  to  keep  cool.  Course  it  put 
us  out ;  but  course  we  didn't  like  to  speak :  so  we 
had  to  say,  "  No  trouble  at  all,  no  trouble  at  all;" 
though  'twasn't  true,  you  know. 

SQUIRE  R.     Very  true  ;  that  is,  it  wasn't  very  true. 

MR.  B.  And  then  'twas  a  master  place  to  c'lect 
young  folks  together,  as  ever  was.  First  the  gals 
would  come  with  their  pails,  and  stand  talking ;  then 
the  beaux  would  come,  'specially  about  sundown. 
Says  I  to  my  wife,  "  Guess  I'll  break  up  that  haunt." 
{Pumps  with  short  quick  stroke.)  But  this  new-fangled 
thing  won't  draw  a  mite. 

SQUIRE  R.  Let  me  try.  {Pumps  slowly,  with  long 
stroke.) 

MR,  B.  Yes,  you  work  it,  and  I'll  pour  in  water  to 
fetch  it.  (Lifts  the  cover  a  little,  and  pretends  to  pour  in 
water  from  a  pitcher ;  then  seizes  the  handle,  and  works 
it  with  quick,  jerking  motion.)  Any  thing  run  out? 

SQUIRE  R.  (stooping  a  little).  I  don't  see  any 
thing. 

MR.  B.   (examining  the  spout) .      Dry  as   a  grass 
hopper. 
(Enter  MR.  DOWNING,  a  tall  man,  with  green  spectacles 

and  wide  red  cravat.     Has  a  rod  in  his  hand,  and 

walks  with  solemn  air.) 


A  DECEMBER   CHARADE.  227 

MR.  D.  (to  MR.  B.  very  stiffly}.  Good-morning,  sir. 
I  understand  3^011  have  a  pump  that  doesn't  work  well. 

Mu.  B.     Exactly  :  that's  just  what  I've  got. 

MR.  D.  (solemnly).     I  am  a  pump-doctor. 

SQUIRE  R.  (with  a  condescending  smile) .  That  is  to 
say,  I  suppose  that  you  can  cure  a  pump,  and  make  it 
well. 

MR.  B.  (laughing) .  Oh,  don't  make  mine  well ! 
It's  been  well  once. 

MR.  D.  If  you  will  place  }Tour  pump  in  my  hands, 
sir,  I  will  pledge  myself  that  it  shall  give  satisfaction. 

SQUIRE  R.     That  is  to  say,  give  water. 

MR.  B.  Here,  take  it  right  into  your  hands :  now 
let's  see  what  'twill  give. 

SQUIRE  R.     How  do  you  cure,  sir? 

MR.  D.  (solemnly).  By  circles  and  opposite  elec 
tricities.  Shall  I  proceed  ? 

MR.  B.     Yes,  proceed  to  begin  :  don't  wait. 

SQUIRE  R.     That  is,  begin  first,  and  then  proceed. 

MR.  B.  And,  if  the  job's  well  done,  you  shall  be 
well  paid. 

MR.  D.  I  shall  require,  gentlemen,  a  little  assist 
ance  from  both  of  you. 

SQUIRE  R.  (glancing  down  at  Ids  clothes  and  his 
hands).  Of  what  nature,  sir? 

MR.  B.  Oh,  yes  !  I'm  willing  to  take  hold  :  course 
you'll  take  little  something  off  the  price. 

MR.  D.  No  labor,  no  actual  labor,  will  be  required 
of  3'ou.  My  S3~stem  involves  only  circles  and  oppo 
site  electricities.  In  the  first  place,  it  will  be  necessary 
to  ascertain  whether  your  electrical  currents  are  oppo 
site. 


228  A  DECEMBER   CHARADE. 

MR.  B.     Well,  how  will  you  do  it? 
(MR.  D.  brings  in  an  old-fashioned  flax-wheel,  or  some 
yarn-winders,  or  any  thing  that  can  be  made  to  turn 
round.     After  solemn  preparation,  he  whirls  this  rap 
idly  for  a  minute  or  two.) 

MR.  D.  to  SQUIRE  R.  Have  the  kindness,  now,  sir, 
to  touch  lightly  the  circumference  of  this  machine. 

(SQUIRE  R.  touches,  and  hops  away  with  a  loud  cry, 
dropping  his  cane.) 

MR.  D.  to  MR.  B.  Now  37ou,  sir.  (MR.  B.  hesi 
tates.)  Don't  be  afraid  :  it  is  quite  harmless. 

(MR.  B.  touches,  and,  with  a  scream,  gives  a  leap  in 
the  opposite  direction,  rubbing  his  arms,  and  looking 
frightened.) 

MR.  D.  All  is  well.  The  electrical  conditions  are 
fulfilled :  the  one  sprang  to  the  east,  the  other  to  the 
west. 

MR.  B.  (glancing  at  the  machine,  and  rubbing  his 
arm) .  Might}'  powerful ! 

MR.  D.  (solemnly) .  I  shall  now  proceed,  gentlemen, 
to  describe  two  circles  around  the  well.  (Marks  out 
two  circles  with  his  rod.)  Will  you  please  to  advance? 
(SQUIRE  R.  walks  towards  the  pump.) 

SQUIRE  R.     Sir,  this  appears  somewhat  like  trifling. 

MR.  D.  That  depends  upon  yourself,  sir.  To  the 
light-minded,  serious  matters  appear  light.  I  deal  with 
the  truths  of  science.  (To  MR.  B.)  Will  you  come 
nearer,  sir? 

MR.  B.  (advancing  cautiously).  No  danger,  I  hope  ; 
no  witchcraft  ? 


A  DECEMBER   CHAEADE.  229 

MR.  D.  Not  the  slightest.  I  will  now  work  the 
handle.  You  two,  being  fully  charged,  will  stand  at 
opposite  points  (placing  them),  and  proceed  to  re 
volve  silently  in  these  circles,  — 3-011,  sir  (to  SQUIRE  R.) , 
revolving  in  the  external  orbit,  and  3-01.1,  sir  (to  MR. 
B.),  in  the  internal:  at  your  third  conjunction,  water 
will  gush  forth.  (Works  the  handle  slowly.  The 
others  walk  as  directed.  At  their  third  meeting,  water 
streams  out.  They  step  back.) 

SQUIRE  R.  (lifting  both  hands) .  Marvellous !  most 
wonderful ! 

MR.  B.  Wai,  I  declare!  Be  3-011  a  wizard?  I 
hope  —  I  hope  it's  Christian  doings. 

MR.  D.  (with  a  smile,  and  wave  of  the  hand) .  What 
you  have  witnessed,  gentlemen,  is  merely  a  new  tri 
umph  of  science. 

MR.  B.  (with  a  sigh  of  relief).  I'm  glad  it's  sci 
ence  :  I  was  afraid  'twas  witchcraft.  Send  in  3'our  bill, 
stranger.  (Pumps.)  I'm  all  in  a  heap.  Science  ! 

MR.  D.  Permit  me  to  inform  you,  sir,  that  witch 
craft  is  science  ;  only  science  doesn't  know  it.  Good- 
morning,  gentlemen  (takes  his  machine)  :  I  have  busi 
ness  farther  on.  Have  the  goodness  to  accept  my 
card  (presenting  it) . 

SQUIRE  R.  (following) .  Will  3'ou  allow  me  to  ac- 
company  you,  and  give  me  the  pleasure  of  3'our  conver 
sation  ? 

MR.  D.  With  pleasure,  sir.  (They  move  to  the 
door.) 

SQUIRE  R.  Good-day,  neighbor.  I'm  rejoiced  that 
3'our  troubles  arc  over.  "  All's  well  that  ends  well." 

MR.  B.     My  well  ends  pump. 

[Curtain  drops, 


230  A  DECEMBER   CHAEADE. 

WHOLE  WORD  :  Farewell. 

It  being  December,  there  may  be  a  Farewell  Address 
from  the  Old  Year  to  the  children.  This  Old  Year 
ma}'  be  represented  by  a  trembling  old  man,  with  white 
locks  and  beard,  leaning  on  his  staff, — the  staff  to  be 
a  portion  of  a  leafless  bough.  He  should  cany  a  pack 
on  his  back,  marked  on  each  end  "  '77  ;  "  and,  as  a 
wholly  pathetic  character  is  not  desirable,  he  may  be 
plentifully  labelled  with  the  same  figures.  White  hair 
and  beard  can  be  made  of  cotton-wool  or  3*arn,  or  both  ; 
and  dipping  the  ends  in  a  solution  of  alum  will  give 
them  a  frosty  or  icy  appearance. 

ADDRESS. 

DEAR  CHILDREN, — Do  3*011  know  who  I  am?  My 
name  is  '77.  Good-by.  I  am  going  now;  yet  very 
few  of  you  will  mourn  for  that.  Are  3*ou  not  already 
wishing  me  awa}^  longing  for  the  young,  bright  New 
Year?  You  know  you  are. 

Oh,  I  remembei  well  when  I  was  nryself  a  3*oung, 
bright  New  Year !  A  Happy  New  Year,  they  called 
me :  and  so  I  was ;  for  then  3*011  all  liked  me.  -  You 
had  longed  for  my  coming ;  you  cheered  me ;  you 
hurrahed ;  you  shouted  for  joy ;  for  I  came  bringing 
gifts  and  good  wishes. 

Ah !  that  is  all  changed  now.  Now  that  I  am  old, 
and  have  little  left  to  give,  3*011  are  willing  to  turn  me 
off  for  another.  Such  ingratitude  is  hard  to  bear.  It 
is  that  which  has  bleached  my  locks,  and  chilled  me  to 
the  heart ;  for  I  have  given  3*ou  the  very  best  I  had. 
Think,  now.  Look  back,  —  awa3*back  to  the  time  when 
I  was  in  my  prime.  Did  I  not  give  you  those  lovely 


A  DECEMBER   CHAKADE.  231 

spring  children  of  mine?  Don't  you  remember  my 
3~oung  April,  so  tender,  so  full  of  feeling,  laughing  and 
crying  in  a  breath  ?  She  brought  the  crocuses  and  vio 
lets,  but  seemed  too  bashful  to  offer  them.  And  do 
you  so  soon  forget  my  pretty,  smiling  Ma}r,  with  her 
apple-blossoms  and  her  singing-birds?  ]\ly  June 
brought  you  green  carpets  inlaid  with  buttercups  and 
daisies,  and  her  warm-hearted  sisters  gave  you  all  their 
beautiful  flowers. 

And  then  my  later  children,  how  generous  they  were  ! 
how  free  of  their  gifts  ?  Think  of  all  the  apples  they 
gave  you ;  think  of  the  abundance  of  ripened  grain, 
—  grain  which  will  last  till  the  new  friend  that  is 
coming  shall  be  able  to  furnish  more.  And  fortunate 
that  it  is  so  ;  for  let  me  tell  3-011  that  it  will  be  a  long 
time  before  this  young  upstart,  this  inexperienced  New 
Year,  can  do  much  for  3-011  in  the  way  of  providing. 

But,  although  I  have  done  my  very  best,  you.  are  im 
patient  to  see  me  off.  Now,  why  this  haste  ?  Why 
treat  me  so  coldly?  When  once  gon^,  3-011  will  see  me 
no  more.  Other  friends  leave  you  in  sadness  to  re 
turn  in  JO3' ;  but  I  go,  never  to  return. 

And  in  this  pack  I  cany  ah1  the  jo3-s  and  the  merry 
times  of  '77:  3'ou  can  never  have  them  back  again. 
Do  3'ou  grieve  for  that?  Take  comfort,  then,  in  the 
thought  that  I  carry,  also,  all  the  sorrows  of  '77. 
But  there  is  something  which  cannot  be  taken  away,  — • 
memor3r.  All  the  days  and  hours  of  '77  are  in  this 
pack  ;  but  the  memory  of  them  remains.  Be  thankful ; 
for  if  memory,  too,  could  be  carried  away,  —  wiry,  then, 
in  looking  back,  what  a  dreaiy  blank  there  would  be  ! 

Well,  children,  I  am  going.      Good-by !      Do  you 


282  A   DECEMBER    CHAHADE.' 

wonder  that  I  go  off  so  smilingly?  'Tis  because  Old 
Santa  Glaus  —  dear,  jolly  Old  Santa  Glaus  —  comes  to 
cheer  me  in  these  last  days.  Ah,  were  it  not  for  him, 
how  gloonry  would  these  last  days  be  !  But  it  is  not 
permitted  me  to  be  sad.  He  comes  with  his  jingling 
of  bells,  and  his  mirth,  and  his  "  Merry,  merry  Christ 
mas  !"  and  so,  thanks  to  him,  I  leave  you  with  a 
smiling  face. 

And  now  farewell  forever !  But  when  young  '  78 
comes,  happy  and  bright,  laden  with  good  wishes,  and 
rejoicing  your  hearts  with  his  beautiful  gifts,  look  back, 
I  pray  you,  and  bestow  one  thought  upon  poor  old  '77. 

WHOLE  WORD  IN  PANTOMIME  : l  Farewell. 

SCENE.  —  Inside  of  room.  When  the  curtain  rises,  a 
young  sailor  is  seen  talting  leave  of  his  mother. 
Both  are  standing.  Her  head  is  slightly  turned 
away;  her  right  hand  is  clasped  in  his.  With  the 
left  she  holds  a  handkerchief  to  her  eyes,  as  if  iveep- 
ing.  Her  little  boy  stands  near,  holding  by  her  dress, 
and  looking  up  in  the  sailor's  face.  His  playthings 
are  scattered  on  the  floor.  Faint  noise  of  singing 
heard,  as  if  in  the  distance :  it  is  the  singing  of  sail 
ors,  and  seems  to  come  nearer  and  nearer,  avid  very 
near.  Sailor  presses  the  mother's  hand  in  both  of 
his;  catches  up  his  little  brother,  and  kisses  him; 
then  rushes  out.  Mother  sinks  doivn,  as  if  overcome 
with  grief,  and  sits  tvith  face  bowed  upon  both  hands. 
Little  boy  looks  out  at  the  door.  /Singing  grows  fainter 
and  fainter,  and  dies  away  in  the  distance,  tvhile  cur 
tain  falls  slowly. 

1  If  preferred,  the  pantomime  may  be  substituted  for  the  Old- Year's 
Address. 


THE  LITTLE  VISITORS, -A  PLAY  FOR  YOUNG 
CHILDREN, 


CHAEACTEKS. 

AGNES,  aged  six  or  seven.  LULU,  aged  six  or  seven.  BEL, 
aged  four  or  five.  DAN,  aged  eight  or  nine.  BENNY,  aged 
ten  or  eleven. 

SCENE.  —  A  common  room.  AGNES  sits  with  many  dolls 
and  other  playthings  about  her.  BENNY  is  reading,  the 
other  side  of  the  room.  DAN  sits  near  him,  catching 
flies  on  the  table. 

(Enter  LULU  and  BEL,  with  dolls  all  in  out-door  rig.) 

AGNES  (jumping  up,  and  clapping  hands) .  Oh,  goody, 
goody  !  Did  your  mothers  say  you-  might  come  ? 

LULU  (speaking  quickly).  Yes,  my  mother  said  I 
might ;  and  then  I  teased  Bel's  mother,  and  she  said 
yes. 

AGNES  (clapping  hands) .  Oh,  I'm  so  glad  !  (Help 
ing  take  off  their  things.)  How  long  can  you  sta}r  ?  Can 
you  stay  to  supper? 

LULU.     I  can't  stay  without  I'm  invited,  mother  said. 

BEL.  My  mother  said  to  come  home  when  the  table 

233 


234  THE   LITTLE   VISITOES. 

had  begun  to  be  set.     I've  got  my  new  boots  on  (look 
ing  down),  and  I  stepped  in  the  mud  with  'em. 

(DAN,  in  catching  a  fly,  knocks  down  BENNY'S  hook.) 

BENNY  (picking  it  up).     Tyhat  are  3~ou  trying  to  do? 

LULU.  We  saw  a  cow,  and  ran  across  the  street ; 
and  Bel  stepped  in  the  mud  (wiping  it  off  Bel's  boots'). 

BEL.     'Twas  a  hooking  cow. 

BENNY.  Ho !  run  for  a  cow !  Tore  I'd  run  for  a 
cow! 

DAN  (swooping  off  a  fly) .  It  doesn't  take  much  to 
scare  girls. 

BENNY  (flnding  his  place) .  I  know  it :  anybody 
could  do  that. 

AGNES.     He  couldn't  scare  us  ;  could  he,  Lulu? 

BENNY.  Don't  }*ou  believe  I  could  make  you  run? 
Boo,  boo  !  (Jumps  at  them.) 

LULU.     Oh,  we  sha'n't  run  for  that ! 

BENNY.  Just  wait  a  little  while  ;  and,  if  I  can't  scare 
you,  then  I'll  treat. 

AGNES  (indignantly).     Do  you  believe  he  could,  Lu? 

LULU.  I  know  he  couldn't.  What  will  you  treat  us 
to? 

BENNY.     Oh  !  any  thing.     Take  your  choice. 

AGNES  (clapping  hands) .  Oh,  goody,  goody !  Ice 
cream,  ice-cream ! 

LULU.     Cream-cakes,  cream-cakes  ! 

DAN.  I've  got  him  (looks  carefully  in  his  hand). 
Why,  I  haven't  got  him!  Where  is  he?  Oh,  I  see! 
(Hits  BENNY'S  shoulder.) 

BENNY  (starting  up) .  You've  driven  away  this  fly. 
(Goes  out  to  disguise  himself.  DAN  goes  on  swooping 
flies  off  of  table;  girls  step  back  to  where  the  dolls  are.) 


A  PLAY  FOR  YOUNG   CHILDREN.  235 

AGNES.     Now  let's  play  something. 

LULU.     So  I  say.     Let's  play  school. 

BEL.     But  there  wouldn't  be  enough  scholars. 

DAN  (coming  fonuard  with  ruler) .  I'll  be  the  school 
master.  Silence !  Take  your  seats.  Study  your 
books.  Can't  have  any  recess.  You  must  all  stay 
after  school.  (Girls  laugh.  DAN  goes  back  to  his  flies.) 

LULU.     Let's  pla}'  mother,  I  say. 

AGNES.     You  be  the  mother? 

LULU.  No,  you  be  the  mother,  and  I'll  be  your  little 
girl,  and  Bel  be  my  little  sister. 

AGNES.  Well,  I'll  run  up  and  get  some  of  my  moth 
er's  things  to  put  on,  and  you  two  can  be  seeing  my 
dollies.  (AGNES  goes.out.) 

DAN  (stepping  forward) .  I'll  be  the  one  to  introduce 
them.  (Takes  up  each  doll  as  it  is  named.)  This  is 
Miss  Cheriydrop,  named  for  her  red  cheeks  ;  but  some 
say  they're  painted,  and  not  real.  She's  got  a  new 
round  comb  and  a  —  a  sontag. 

BEL.  Oh,  that  isn't  a  sontag !  'tis  a  breakfast- 
shawl. 

DAN.  Well,  never  mind.  Here  is  Miss  Patty  Troo- 
dledum ;  very  proud,  so  they  say,  because  her  dress  is 
spangled.  When  Aggy  thinks* too  much  of  her  new 
clothes,  mother  says,  "Ah!  who  have  we  here?  Miss 
Patty  Troodledum?"  Sit  down  there,  Miss  Patty. 
And  this  is  the  young  sailor-bo}^  just  home  from  sea. 
There's  the  star  on  his  collar,  and  his  Scotch  cap. 
Jack,  take  off  3'our  cap,  and  make  a  bow  to  the  ladies. 
His  mother  fainted  away  with  joy  at  seeing  him,  and 
hasn't  come  to  yet :  here  she  is.  ( Takes  up  old  faded 
shabby  doll.)  But  here  is  'somebody  very  grand. 


236  THE  LITTLE  VISITORS. 

Now,  who  do  you  think  came  over  in  the  ship  with  the 
sailor-boy  ? 

LULU.     The  captain. 

DAN.     Of  course.     But  I  mean  passenger. 

LULU.     Who  was  it  ? 

DAN.     Mademoiselle  De  Waxy,  right  from  Paris. 

LULU.     Oh,  she's  a  beauty  !     Don't  touch  her,  Bel ! 

DAN.  Oh,  no  !  Miss  De  Waxy  mustn't  be  touched. 
Miss  De  Waxy  keeps  by  herself,  and  never  speaks  a 
word  to  the  others,  because  they  can't  talk  French. 
Miss  De  Waxy,  before  she  came  over,  thought  all  the 
American  dolls  w^je  dressed  in  wild  beasts'  skins. 
See,  this  is  her  fan,  bought  in  Paris ;  and  this  is  her 
gold  chain.  (Lays  her  carefully  by.) 

BEL.  And  who  are  all  these  little  ones?  (Pointing 
to  row  of  small  dolls.) 

DAN.  Those  are  the  children  just  come  from  school, 
waiting  for  their  lunch.  See  this  cunning  one !  She 
doesn't  know  O  yet :  she's  in  the  eleventh  class. 

LULU.  And  who  is  that  old  one  with  that  funny  cap 
on? 

DAN.  Oh,  this!  (Taking  up  large  old  rag-doll.) 
Why,  this  is  —  this  is  old  Nurse  Trot.  Poor  old  wo 
man,  she's  got  a  lame  back,  and  she's  all  worn  out  tend 
ing  so  many  children ;  but  she  never  complains,  nor 
sheds  a  tear. 

BEL.     Oh,  she's  got  a  bag  on  her  arm  ! 

DAN.  Her  snuff-box  is  in  that.  The  sailor-boy 
brought  it  home  from  sea  to  her.  (  Takes  out  the  box. 
opens  it,  takes  pinch  of  snuff,  sneezes.  The  others 
sneeze.)  Best  of  snuff!  And  he  brought  her  these 
new  spectacles  (tries  them  on  her)  :  now  she  can  see 
as  well  as  ever  she  could. 


A  PLAY  FOR   YOUNG   CHILDREN.  237 

LULU.     How  came  this  one's  arm  off? 

DAN.  Why,  that  is  poor  Tabitha.  She  broke  her 
arm  sweeping  out  the  baby-house ;  and  it  had  to  be 
taken  off  at  the  shoulder. 

BEL.     Where  did  she  get  that  clean  apron  ? 

DAN.  That  checked  apron?  Let  me  see.  That 
came,  I  think — oh  !  that  was  made  at  the  doll's  sew 
ing-school. 

LULU.  Look,  Bel :  here's  a  blind  one  !  (Takes  up 
doll  with  eyes  gone.) 

BEL.     Oh!  isn't  that  too  bad? 

DAN.  Yes,  she's  blind  ;  totally  blind.  She  became 
so  by  tr}Ting  to  sleep  with  her  eyes  open.  Dolls  know 
better  now.  They  shut  their  eyes  when  they  lie  down, 
and  go  off  to  sleep  like  live  folks. 

LULU.     Oh,  see  this  one  !  she's  all  spoiled. 

DAN.  Yes :  she  was  spoiled  having  her  own  way. 
Fell  down  when  she  was  told  to  stand  up,  and  broke 
her  cheek.  Doctors  were  sent  for ;  but  they  couldn't 
do  any  thing.  She  ought  to  have  that  face  tied  up. 
Where's  her  pocket-handkerchief?  Here  it  is.  Now, 
isn't  that  a  beaut}'?  Aggy  says  the  sailor-boy  brought 
it  home  to  her  from  China.  There,  now  her  face  is  tied 
up,  she  won't  get  cold.  Do  3-011  see  this  pretty  girl 
with  the  pink  dress  and  curly  hair  ?  She  is  to  be  the 
wife  of  the  sailor-boy.  These  two  sit  close  together 
all  the  time,  waiting  for  their  wedding-day.  The  wed 
ding-cake  is  ordered.  See  how  smiling  they  look ! 
and  no  wonder.  I  will  tell  you  who  is  invited  to  the 
wedding  ;  but  you  mustn't  tell.  First,  all  the —  Oh ! 
here  comes  Aggy.  Wait  till  by  and  by. 


238  THE  LITTLE  VISITORS. 

(Enter  AGNES,  dressed  up  in  her  mother's  clothes,  with 
gay  head-dress.) 

LULU  (laughing)  .  Oh,  what  a  good  mother  !  What  '11 
your  name  be  ? 

AGNES.  .  Mrs.  White.  (Tiptoes  up  at  the  glass, 
ttvists  and  turns,  arranges  bows,  strings,  collar,  &c.) 
This  is  the  way  mother  does. 

DAN.  Shall  I  be  the  father,  and  do  the  way  father 
does? 

ALL  THE  GIRLS.     Oh,  yes,  yes  !     Do  ! 

(DAN  goes  out.     AGNES  walks  stiffly  to  a  chair,  speaks 
to  the  children  very  soberly.) 

AGNES.  Children  (unfolding  aprons)  ,  come  and  let 
me  put  on  }Tour  sleeved  aprons. 

LULU  and  BEL  (ivhining)  .     I  don't  want  to. 

AGNES  (stiffly).  Little  girls  must  think  mother 
knows  best.  Come,  mind  mother.  (Sleeved  aprons 
are  put  on.)  Now,  children  (speaking  slowly),  I  am 
going  to  have  company  this  afternoon  ;  and  3-011  must 
be  very  good  children.  What  do  you  say  when  a  gen 
tleman  speaks  to  }'ou?  (Children  stand  with  folded 
hands.) 

LULU  and  BEL.     Yes,  sir  ;  no,  sir. 

AGNES.     What  do  you  say  when  a  lady  speaks  to 


LULU  and  BEL.     Yes,  ma'am  ;  no,  ma'am. 

AGNES.  And,  if  they  ask  you  how  you  do,  don't 
hang  your.head  down,  and  suck  your  thumbs,  so«  but 
speak  this  way  (with  slight  bow  and  simper)  ,  —  "  Very 
well,  I  thank  you."  Now  let  me  hear  you  say  it. 

CHILDREN  (imitating)  .     Very  well,  I  thank  you. 


A  PLAY  FOE   YOUNG   CHILDREN.  239 

AGNES.     And  what  do  you  say  at  the  table  ? 
BEL.     Please  give  me  some  more  jelly. 
LULU.     Please  may  I  be  excused,  when  we  get  up. 
AGNES.     That  is  right.     And,  if  anybody  asks  you 
to  sing,  you  must  be  willing,  and  sing  them  one   of 
your  little  songs.     What  one  do  you  like  the  best? 
LULU.     "  Gone  Away." 

AGNES.  I  think  you'd  better  sing  it  over  with  me, 
to  be  sure  you  know  it.  (All  three  sing  a  song,  AGXES 
beginning.) 

GONE  AWAY. 
TUNE,  —  "  Nelly  Ely." 
I  know  a  pretty  little  maid, 

And  Sally  is  her  name ; 
And,  though  she's  far  away  from  me, 
I  love  her  just  the  same. 
Sally  is  a  darling  girl, 

A  darling  girl  is  she: 
Her  smile  so  bright  is  a  happy  sight 
I'd  give  the  world  to  see. 

Upon  my  lovely  Sally's  lips 
The  sweetest  kisses  grow. 
Oh !  if  I  had  her  by  my  side, 
She'd  give  me  some,  I  know. 
Sally  is  a  darling  girl, 

A  darling  girl  is  she : 
Her  smile  so  bright  is  the  happiest  sight 
In  all  the  world  to  me. 

I  have  not  seen  my  little  girl 

This  many  and  many  a  day: 
I  hope  she'll  not  forget  me  in 
That  land  so  far  away. 
Sally  is  a  darling  girl, 

A  darling  girl  is  she: 
Her  smile  so  bright  is  a  happy  sight 
I'd  give  the  world  to  see. 


240  THE   LITTLE  VISITORS. 

AGNES  (slowly).  Very  well.  Now  sit  down,  dears, 
and  play  with  your  playthings,  and  don't  disturb 
mother.  Mother's  going  to  make  a  new  head-dress. 
(Takes  lace,  flowers,  ribbons,  from  work-basket.  Chil 
dren  sit  down  and  play  with  blocks,  dishes,  &c.) 

(DAN   enters,  dressed  as  father,  with  tall  hat,  dicky, 
black  whiskers,  cane,  &c.) 

AGNES.  Children,  be  quiet.  Your  father's  coming. 
(DAN  ivalks  in  with  stately  air,  seats  himself,  crosses 
foot  over  the  other  knee,  tips  back  a  little,  takes  out  pipe, 
pretends  to  smoke.) 

DAN.     That's  the  way  father  does. 

(Children  get  each  other's  things,  and  make  believe 

quarrel.) 

LULU  .  That '  s  mine . 
BEL.  I  say  'tisn't. 
LULU.  I  say  'tis. 

BEL.     Mother,  see  Lu  !     ) 

TVT  4.1,  -D  i    i  Both  together. 

LULU.     Mother,  see  Bel.  ) 

(Children's  blocks  tumble  down  with  great  noise.    They 
get  each  other's.) 

LULU.     Mother,  won't  you  speak  to  Bel? 
BEL.     Mother,  Lu  keeps  plaguing. 
DAN  (sternly) .     Silence,  children  ! 
AGNES  (knock  heard  at   the  door).     Bel,  you  may 
go  to  the  door. 

(BEL  goes  to  the  door,  and  runs  back  really  frightened.) 

BEL.  Oh,  there's  an  old  beggar-man  there !  I'm 
scared  of  him  !  (Begins  to  cry.) 


A  PLAY  FOR   YOVNG   CHILDREN.  241 

(Enter  beggar-man  very  slowly.  He  is  shockingly 
dressed;  stoops;  is  humpbacked ;  carries  a  cane ;  has 
whiskers  and  hair,  which,  ivith  a  slouched  hat,  nearly 
cover  his  face.  Girls  are  really  frightened,  and,  hud 
dling  close  together,  whisper.) 
ALL  THE  GIRLS.  Who  is  it?  I'm  scared !  Let's 

run  !     Come  quick  !     (Girls  run  out.) 

DAN  (jumping  up) .     Good  for  you,  Ben !     I  knew 

they'd  be  scared. 

BENNY  (throwing  off  disguise) .    Hurrah!  let's  chase  ! 

No  treat,  no  treat ! 

DAN.     Come  on,  come  on !     (TJiey  run  out.) 


THE  BIRD  DIALOGUE, 


SPEAKERS. 

MARY.  EDITH.  EVA.  FREDERIC. 

DEBBIE.         CAROLINE.        MINNIE.  ARTHUR. 

DORA.  HITTIE.  JOE.  JOHNNY. 

GUSSIE. 

[MARY,  CAROLINE,  DEBBIE,  and  DORA  are  the  largest 
among  the  girls;  MINNIE  and  EVA  the  smallest.  FREDERIC 
and  JOE  are  the  largest  boys:  JOHNNY  is  the  smallest.] 

SCENE.  — A  schoolroom.  Tables  and  chairs  are  placed 
around,  upon  which  are  books,  slates,  a  globe,  &c. 
Maps  are  hung  upon  the  tvalls.  A  group  of  scholars 
assembled,  waiting  for  school  to  begin.  MARY 
and  HITTIE  are  sitting  together,  MARY'S  arm  around 
HITTIE.  JOHNNY  stands  whittling.  GUSSIE  is  seated, 
with  open  book  in  hand,  twirling  a  teetotum.  DEBBIE 
stands  with  sack  on,  holding  and  occasionally  swing 
ing  her  hat  by  one  string.  CAROLINE  sits  with  slate 
and  arithmetic  before  her.  EDITH  is  seated  with  an 
open  atlas.  FREDERIC  leans  back  a  little  in  his  chair, 
sharpening  lead-pencils  for  the  others,  which  he  hands 
them  at  intervals.  DORA  is  at  work  on  tatting. 
242 


THE  BIED   DIALOGUE.  243 

ARTHUR  stands,  and  is  winding  a  ball,  unravelling 
the  yarn  from  an  old  stocking.  JOE  sits  at  work  on 
the  hull  of  a  little  boat.  MINNIE  is  sitting  on  a  low 
stool,  with  a  bunch  of  Jloivers,  which  she  is  arran 
ging  in  different  ways.  EVA  is  also  on  a  low  stool, 
near  DORA  and  CAROLINE.  These  various  occupa 
tions  are  introduced  to  avoid  stiffness.  They  should 
not  be  kept  up  constantly,  but  left  off  and  resumed 
occasionally,  in  an  easy,  careless  way.  Confused 
talking  and  noise  heard  behind  the  curtain.  Curtain 
rises. 

MARY  (as  if  continuing  a  conversation).  Now,  / 
should  rather  be  a  robin.  He  sings  so  pretty  a 
song  !  Everybody  likes  to  hear  a  robin  sing.  I  don't 
believe  even  a  boy  would  shoot  a  robin. 

JOHNNY.     Course  he  wouldn't ! 

MINNIE.  Robin  redbreasts  covered  up  the  two  little 
childuns  when  they  got  lost  in  the  woods, 

CAROLINE.  And  they  don't  do  like  other  birds,  — 
live  here  all  summer  and  have  a  good  time,  and  then 
fly  off  and  leave  us.  They  stay  by. 

GUSSIE.     How  do  you  know  that  ? 

CAROLINE  (or  any  one  that  can  sing).  Oh!  I've 
heard.  They  stay  in  swamps  and  barns,  waiting  for 
spring.  Don't  you  remember?  (Sings.) 

"  The  north- wind  doth  blow,  and  we  shall  have  snow; 
And  what  will  the  robin  do  then,  poor  thing  ? 
He  will  sit  in  the  barn,  and  keep  himself  warm, 
And  hide  his  head  under  his  wing,  poor  thing!  " 

(Others  join  in  the  song,  one  or  two  at  a  time;  and,  at 
the  dose,  all  are  singing.) 


244  THE  BIED  DIALOGUE. 

MARY.  Yes :  he  comes  up  close  to  our  back-door 
and  eats  the  crumbs,  and  perches  on  the  apple-tree 
boughs.  Mother  says  it  seems  as  if  he  were  one  of 
the  family. 

DEBBIE.  Now,  I  should  a  great  deal  rather  be  a 
swallow,  and  fly  away.  Then  I  could  fly  away  down 
South  where  the  oranges  grow,  and  figs  and  sugar 
cane,  and  see  all  the  wonderful  sights ;  and  I'd  go  to 
the  beautiful  sunny  islands  away  over  the  seas. 

JOHNNY.  You'd  get  tired,  maybe,  and  drop  down 
into  the  water. 

JOE.  No.  He'd  light  on  vessels'  topmasts :  that's 
the  way  they  do. 

DEBBIE.  'Twould  be  a  great  deal  better  than  living 
in  a  barn  all  winter. 

DORA.  Oh,  this  morning  I  saw  the  prettiest  bird  I 
ever  saw  in  all  my  life !  Oh,  if  he  wasn't  a  pretty 
bird  !  Father  said  'twas  a  Baltimore  oriole.  Part  of 
him.  was  black,  and  part  of  him  red  as.  fire.  Oh,  he 
was  a  beauty  I  If  ever  I  am  a  bird,  I'll  be  an  oriole  ! 

ARTHUR.     Uncle  Daniel  calls  him  the  fire  hangbird. 

FREDERIC.  That's  because  his  nest  hangs  down 
from  the  bough  like  a  bag. 

CAROLINE.  Don't  you  know  what  that's  for? 
Where  they  first  came  from,  'way  down  in  the  torrid 
zone,  they  build  their  nests  that  way,  so  the  monkeys 
and  serpents  can't  get  their  eggs. 

ARTHUR.     I've  got  a  hangbird's  egg. 

EDITH.     Do  they  have  red  eggs?     (Bays  smile.) 

FRED.  No:  black-and-white.  Father  calls  him  the 
golden-robin. 

CAROLINE.    I'll  tell  you  what  I'd  be,  —  a  mocking- 


THE  BIRD  DIALOGUE.  245 

bird.  And  I'll  tell  you  why :  because  a  mocking-bird 
can  sing  every  tune  he  hears.  It  does  vex  me  so  when 
I  hear  a  pretty  tune,  and  can't  sing  it !  Sometimes  I 
remember  one  line,  and  then  I  can't  rest  till  I  get  the 
whole.  Mother  says  I  ought  to  have  been  born  a 
mocking-bird. 

FRED.     Of  course,  Caroline  would  want  to  carol. 

(Groans  and  "  0  Fred!"  by  the  crowd.) 

CAROLINE.  Mother  says  he  can  whistle  to  the  dog, 
and  chirp  like  a  chicken,  or  scream  like  a  hawk,  and 
can  imitate  any  kind  of  a  sound, — filing,  or  planing, 
or  any  thing. 

MARY.  And  he  can  sing  sweeter  than  a  nightin 
gale. 

ARTHUR.     I'd  be  a  lark  ;  for  he  goes  up  the  highest. 

FRED.     Pie  has  a  low  enough  place  to  start  from. 

CAROLINE.  I  know  it,  —  'way  down  on  the  ground, 
'mongst  the  grass. 

DEBBIE.  No  matter  what  a  low  place  he  starts  from, 
so  long  as  he  gets  up  high  at  last.  Don't  3-011  know 
Lincoln  ? 

JOE.  I  know  what  I  would  be, — some  kind  of  a 
water-fowl :  then  I  could  go  to  sea. 

JOHNNY.     You'd  better  be  a  coot. 

FRED.     Or  one  of  Mother  Carey's  chickens. 

JOE.  No.  I'd  be  that  great  strong  bird,  I  forget 
his  name,  that  flies  and  flies  over  the  great  ocean,  and 
never  stops  to  rest,  through  storms  and  darkness  right 
ahead.  He  doesn't  have  to  take  in  sail,  or  cut  away 
the  masts.  I'd  be  an  albatross  !  — Gugs,  what  do  you 
think  about  it  ? 


246  THE   BIBB  DIALOGUE. 

Guss.  Well,  I  think  I'll  be  an  ostrich :  then  I  can 
run  and  fly  both  together. 

ARTHUR.     And  you  wouldn't  be  afraid  to  eat  things. 

Guss.  That's  so !  They  swallow  down  leather, 
stones,  old  iron  ;  and  nothing  ever  hurts  them. 

DEBBIE.  I  heard  of  one  swallowing  a  lady's  para 
sol. 

JOHNNY.     But  they'd  pull  out  your  feathers. 

Guss.  No  matter !  The  girls  need  them  for  their 
hats. 

JOHNNY.  I  know  what  I'd  be.  I'd  be  an  owl: 
then  I  could  sit  up  nights. 

HITTIE.     You'd  be"  scared  of  the  dark ! 

JOHNNY.     'Twouldn't  be  dark  if  I  were  an  owl. 

MARY.     Can't  you  play  enough  daytimes  ? 

JOHNNY.  Oh!  daytime  isn't  good  for  any  thing. 
They  have  all  the  fun  after  we've  gone  to  bed,  —  I  and 
Charlie. 

FRED.  'Twon't  do  for  little  boys  to  hear  every 
thing  that  goes  on. 

Guss.  You  little  fellers  are  apt  to  make  a  noise,  and 
disturb  us. 

HITTIE.  Mother  says,  if  I  weren't  a  chatterbox,  I 
could  stay  up  later.  I'll  choose  to  be  a  parrot ;  for 
parrots  can  talk  just  when  they  want  to,  and  have  blue 
wings,  and  green  wings,  and  red  and  yellow,"  and  ah1 
colors. 

EDITH.  I  should  rather  be  a  canary-bird,  'cause 
they  have  sponge-cake  and  sugar-lumps  every  day. 

HITTIE.  Oh,  I  wouldn't  be  a  canary-bird,  shut  up  in 
a  cage ! 

DORA.     I  should  rather  live  on  dry  sticks. 


THE  BIRD   DIALOGUE.  247 

MINNIE.  My  mamma's  got  a  cana^-bird;  and  he 
sings,  and  he's  yellow. 

HITTIE.     Parrots  are  the  prettiest. 

MARY.  Why  doesn't  somebody  be  a  flamingo?  He 
is  flame-colored. 

ARTHUR.  I  should  think  some  of  you  girls  would 
want  to  be  a  peacock. 

DEBBIE.  Now,  what  do  you  say  girls  for?  Boys 
think  as  much  of  their  new  clothes  as  girls  do. 

DORA  and  MARY.     Just  as  much  ! 

FRED.  I  know  who  seems  like  a  peacock,  —  Nannie 
Minns.  I  saw  her  stepping  off  the  other  day  just  as 
proud! — about  seventeen  flounces,  and  yellow  kids, 
and  3'ellow  boots,  and  curls  and  streamers  !  — first  look 
ing  at  her  dress,  and  then  at  her  boots,  and  then  at  her 
gloves,  and  then  at  her  curls,  —  this  way.  (Imitates 
Nannie  Minus's  walking.) 

DEBBIE.  Well,  if  some  girls  are  peacocks,  so  are 
some  boys  hawks.  I  saw  that  great  Joshua  Lowe 
come  pouncing  down  among  a  flock  of  little  boys  yes 
terday,  and  do  every  thing  he  could  think  of  to  'em, 
just  to  show  he  could  master  them. 

MARY.  And,  if  you  want  a  crow-fighter,  take  Andy 
Barrows  :  he's  always  picking  a  quarrel. 

DORA.  I  know  it.  I've  heard  him.  "  Come  on  !  " 
he  says,  —  "  come  on  :  I'll  fight  ye  !  " 

CAROLINE.  I  think,  as  a  general  thing,  girls  behave 
better  than  boys.  What  do  you  think  about  it,  little 
Minnie?  You  don't  say  much. 

MINNIE  (looking  up  from  her  flowers) .  I'd  be  a 
humming-bird.  , 

EDITH.     She  thinks  you're  talking  about  birds. 


248  THE  BIED  DIALOGUE. 

CAROLINE.  And  what  would  you  be  a  humming-bird 
for? 

MINNIE.     'Cause  they're  so  pretty,  and  so  cunning ! 

HITTIE.     So  they  are,  Minnie. 

MINNIE.  And  they  keep  with  the  flowers  all  the 
time,  and  eat  honey. 

ARTHUR.  They  eat  the  little  mites  of  insects  as 
much  as  they  do  honey. 

EDITH.  My  brother  found  a  humming-bird's  nest. 
Oh,  the  inside  of  it  was  just  as  soft  as  wool !  and 
little  bits  of  white  eggs,  just  like  little  bits  of  white 
beans. 

DORA  (looking  at  EVA,  and  taking  her  hand) .  Now, 
here's  a  little  girl  sitting  still  all  this  time,  and  not 
sajing  a  word. 

CAROLINE.  I  know  it.  Isn't  she  a  dear  little  girl? 
(Stroking  her  hair.) 

MARY.  She  ought  to  be  a  dove,  she's  so  gentle  and 
still. 

DEBBIE.  You  dear  little  pigeon-dove,  what  bird 
would  you  be  ? 

EVA  (looking  up) .     Sparrow. 

MARY.  You  would?  And  what  would  you  be  a 
sparrow  for  ? 

EVA.  'Cause  my  mamma  said  not  a  sparrow  falls 
to  the  ground. 

(The  girls  look  at  each  other.) 

DEBBIE  (softly).     Isn't  she  cunning? 
MARY  and  DORA  (softly) .    I  think  she's  just  as  cun 
ning  as  she  can  be. 

JOE.     Fred  hasn't  said  what  he'd  be  yet. 


THE   BIRD   DIALOGUE.  249 

FRED.  Eagle.  He's  the  grandest  of  all.  He  can 
fly  right  in  the  face  of  the  sun. 

JOHXNY.     Eagles  can  beat  every  other  bird. 

JOE.  Of  course,  Fred  wouldn't  be  any  tiling  short 
of  an  eagle. 

FRED.  No:  nor  any  thing  short  of  the  American 
eagle. 

ALL  THE  BOYS.  Three  cheers  for  the  American 
eagle ! 

ALL  TOGETHER.     Hurrah,  hurrah,  hurrah  ! 

(Curtain  falls.  Or,  if  there  be  no  curtain,  a  boy 
rushes  in  to  tell  them  the  organ-man  is  coming,  and 
they  all  rush  out.) 


SHOPPING, -A  DIALOGUE  FOR  THE  VERY 
LITTLE  ONES, 


CHARACTERS. 

CLERK.  OLD  LADY.  MRS.  HIGHFLT. 

ANNIE.  CELIA.  MR.  JONES. 

SCENE.  —  A  shop.  Tables  are  placed  at  one  end  of 
the  stage  to  represent  counters.  Upon  these  are  dis 
played  toys,  confectionery,  boxes,  or  any  thing  which 
will  indicate  a  shop.  Advertisements  of  patent  medi 
cines  and  of  other  things  might  be  hung  up.  Wliite 
pebbles  may  pass  for  sugar-plums.  Sticks  whittled 
out  and  colored  will  do  for  sticks  of  candy.  A  little 
boy  of  seven  or  eight  may  be  dressed  up  to  represent 
a  smart  clerk  or  storekeeper  (with  a  pen  behind  his 
ear).  The  other  actors  should  be  younger.  CELIA 
and  ANNIE,  two  very  little  girls,  enter  at  one  end  of 
the  stage. 

CELIA.  O  Annie  !  did  your  mother  give  you  a  cent? 

ANNIE.  Yes.     See !     (Holds  it  out.) 

CELIA.  Want  me  to  go  with  you  to  spend  it  ? 

ANNIE.  Yes,  come.     There's  the  shop. 

250 


SHOPPING. — A  DIALOGUE.  251 

CELIA.     Will  you  let  me  taste? 

ANNIE.    If  you  won't  taste  very  big. 

CELIA.  I  will  only  take  just  a  little  teenly  teenty 
mite.  (They  cross  over.) 

ANNIE.    Here's  the  shop. 

CLERK.    "Well,  my  little  girls,  what  will  you  have? 

CELIA.     She  wants  to  spend  her  cent. 

CLERK.    That's  right.     This  is  the  place. 

ANNIE.    I  want  a  stick  of  candy. 

CLERK.    Red  candy? 

ANNIE.  No,  sir.  Mamma  says  white  candy  is  best 
for  little  girls. 

(CLERK  wraps  stick  of  candy  in  paper,  and  takes  the 
cent.  Little  girls  walk  away,  hand  in  hand.  ANNIE 
lets  CELIA  taste.  CELIA  and  ANNIE  go  out.) 

(Enter  MRS.  HIGHFLY,  fashionably  dressed,  with  trail, 
veil,  waterfall,  reticule,  parasol,  &c.) 

CLERK  (with  polite  bow).  Good-morning,  Mrs. 
Highfly. 

MRS.  HIGHFLT.  Have  you  any  canary-seeds  ?  I 
wish  to  get  some  for  my  bird. 

CLERK.     We  have  all  kinds  of  flower-seeds,  ma'am. 

MRS.  HIGHFLY.  Those  won't  do.  Have  you  nice 
prunes  ? 

CLERK.  We  don't  keep  prunes.  We  have  some 
very  nice  squashes,  ma'am.  (Takes  long-necked  squash 
from  behind  the  counter.) 

MRS.  HIGIIFLY.     What  do  you  ask? 

CLERK.     Six  cents  a  pound. 

MRS.  HIGHFLY.  I'll  take  half  a  one.  My  family  is 
quite  small. 

A  1C  JL  ^f  * 


252  SHOPPING.  —  A  DIALOGUE 

CLERK.     Can't  cut  it,  ma'am.     It  sells  by  wholesale. 
MRS.  HIGHFLY.     I'll  try  some  other  store. 

[Exit  MRS.  HIGHFLY  in  displeasure. 

(Enter  nice  OLD  LADY,  dressed  in  black;  white  cap-frill 
sJiows  under  her  bonnet :  she  carries  a  work-bag,  and 
wears  spectacles  (without  glasses) ;  makes  a  little 
courtesy.) 

OLD  LADY.  Good-morning,  sir.  I've  come  to  town, 
and  I  want  to  buy  some  sugar-plums  for  my  grand 
children. 

CLERK.     Large  or  small  kind? 

OLD  LADY.     Which  are  the  best? 

CLERK.  Large  ones  are  better  for  large  children, 
and  small  for  the  small  ones. 

OLD  LADY  (counts  her  fingers).  Let  me  see. 
There's  Sarah  Emeline  and  Polly  and  Jemima  and  John 
Alexander  and  Hiram,  —  five.  I'll  take  five  cents' 
worth,  mixed.  (Takes  out  from  her  bag  Jive  old-fash 
ioned  cents.) 

CLERK.  Yes'm.  (Attempting  to  wrap  them  in 
paper,  OLD  LADY  watching  him.)  'Twill  come  to  just 
five  cents. 

OLD  LADY  (opening  bag) .  Drop  them  right  in  here. 
(CLERK  drops  them  in.) 

[Exit  OLD  LADY. 

(Enter  MR.  JONES  with  tall  hat,  overcoat  or  dress-coat, 
cane,  stand-up  dicky,  &c.) 

CLERK.     Good-morning,  sir.     Wish  to  trade  to-day  ? 
MR.  JONES.     I  wish  to  buy  some  toys  for  my  chil 
dren. 


FOB  TELE  VERY  LITTLE  ONES.  253 

CLERK.     How  old  are  your  children? 

MR.  JONES.     All  ages. 

CLERK.  Would  you  like  a  whip,  sir?  (Shows  one, 
snapping  it.) 

MR.  JONES.  Well,  a  whip  isn't  a  very  good  thing  to 
have  in  the  house. 

CLERK.  Would  you  buy  a  ball?  These  will  every 
one  bounce.  (Shows  various  kinds.) 

MR.  JONES.  No,  sir.  I'm  about  tired  of  setting 
glass. 

CLERK.  These  are  warranted  not  to  break  windows. 
But  here's  a  trumpet.  A  trumpet  is  a  very  pleasing 
toy.  (Shows  one,  blowing  it.) 

MR.  JONES  (with  a  wave  of  the  hand) .  Don't  show 
me  anj'  thing  that  will  make  a  noise. 

CLERK.  How  would  a  hoop  suit  you?  (Shewing 
one.) 

MR.  JONES.  I  couldn't  think  of  spending  money  for 
hoops.  A  barrel-hoop  drives  just  as  well. 

CLERK.     Have  they  got  marbles  ? 

MR.  JONES.  Yes,  plenty.  My  Sammy  got  one  in 
his  throat,  and  came  very  near  being  choked. 

CLERK.  Try  a  jumping-jack.  (Holds  one  up,  pull 
ing  the  string.) 

MR.  JONES.     Oh !  they'd  soon  break  the  string. 

CLERK.  How  would  a  knife  please  them  ?  (SJiows 
one.) 

MR.  JONES.  Well  enough.  But  they'd  be  sure  to 
lose  it,  or  cut  themselves.  Jemmy's  got  six  fingers 
tied  up  now. 

CLERK.  Are  they  supplied  with  boats  ?  (Showing 
one.) 


254  SHOPPING.  —  A  DIALOGUE. 

MR.  JONES.  I  never  let  my  children  sail  boats,  for 
fear  of  their  being  drowned. 

CLERK.     How  is  it  about  a  kite  ? 

MR.  JONES.     Kites  are  likely  to  blow  away. 

CLERK.     Perhaps  you'd  like  something  useful. 

MR.  JONES.     M}7  children  don't  like  useful  things. 

CLERK.     Here's  a  good  hatchet.     (Shows  hatchet.) 

MR.  JONES.     They'd  hack  my  fruit-trees. 

CLERK.     A  hammer  ? 

MR.  JONES.     Nails  would  be  driven  in  everywhere. 

CLERK.     Buy  a  doll  for  3rour  little  girl.     (Shows  doll.) 

MR.  JONES.     She  has  a  houseful  now. 

CLERK.     A  silver  thimble  ? 

MR.  JONES.     A  pewter  one  does  as  well  to  lose. 

CLERK.     You  are  a  hard  customer,  sir. 

MR.  JONES.     Not  at  all.     Your  wares  don't  suit  me. 

CLERK.     We  expect  a  new  lot  of  to}Ts  in  soon. 

MR.  JONES  (going).  I'll  call  again.  Good-morn 
ing. 

CLERK.     Good-day,  sir. 

[Exit  MR.  JONES. 

NOTE.  —  If  the  part  of  the  clerk  is  too  long  for  one  small  boy 
to  remember,  another  one  dressed  as  the  storekeeper,  with  gray 
whiskers  and  wig  (made  of  curled  hair),  might  come  in  and 
take  his  place  when  Mr.  Jones  enters.  In  this  case  the  clerk 
should  sit  down  and  look  over  his  account-books,  and  appear 
to  write.  If  the  conversation  with  Mr.  Jones  is  too  long,  part 
of  it  may  be  omitted ;  and,  if  the  articles  mentioned  are  not  at 
hand,  others  may  be  substituted. 


MAY-DAY  INDOOES ;  OE,  THE  YOTOPSKI  FAMI 
LY'S  EEHEAESAL. 


CHARACTERS. 

ARTHUR,  William  Tell.  NED,  the  Tyrant.  TOMMY,  TelVs 
Son.  GEOEGE.  CAROLINE,  LUCY,  ANNA,  POLLY,  KATE. 
Girls  are  dressed  in  white,  with  bright  sashes,  and  have  little 
flags.  GEORGE  has  a  larger  Jlag. 

SCENE.  —  Room  in  residence  of  NED,  POLLY,  and 
TOMMY.  Lunch-baskets,  &c.,  on  chairs.  POLLY 
sits,  holding  her  hat,  shawl,  and  sack.  TOMMY  is 
seated  on  the  floor,  playing  with  marbles.  NED,  a 
much  larger  boy,  leans  over  a  chair-back. 

NED  (dolefully) .  We  shall  have  to  give  it  up,  Polly. 
No  May-party  to-day.  (Goes  to  window.) 

POLLY  (earnestly).  Oh  !  don't  you  think  the  clouds 
will  blow  over  ? 

NED.  The  whole  sky  will  have  to  blow  over.  It's 
all  lead-color. 

POLLY  (sighing).     Oh,  dear,  dear,  dear! 

(Voices  heard  outside.  Enter,  with  a  rush,  CAROLINE, 
LUCY,  ANNA,  KATE,  GEORGE,  and  ARTHUR,  with  bas- 

255 


256  MAY-DAY  INDOOKS;   OR, 

kets,  tin  pails,  &c.     The  boys'  hats  are  trimmed  with 
evergreen,  the  girls'  with  wreaths  and  posies.     Tlie 
girls  have  baskets  of  flowers.     TOMMY  leaves  off  play 
ing  with  his  marbles  to  watch  the  new-comers.) 
GEORGE    (throwing  down  a  long  coil  of  evergreen) . 

Here  we  come ! 

LUCY    (almost  out  of  breath,   and  speaking  fast). 

Yes,  here  we  come,  pell-mell !     It's  going  to  pour  ! 
CAROLINE  (speaking  just  as  LUCY  finishes) .    Oh,  how 

we  have  hurried  !     I  felt  a  great  drop  fall  on  my  nose. 
ANNA   (speaking  just  as  CAROLINE  finishes).     And 

think  of  our  dresses  !  —  span-clean  white  dresses  ! 

KATE  (speaking  just  as  ANNA  finishes) .     No  proces 
sion    to-day !  —  no    dancing    around    the   May-pole ! 

(ARTHUR  throws  up  his  hat,  and  catches  it.     GEORGE 

does  the  same.) 

LUCY.     They  got  all  that  evergreen  to    trim   the 

Maypole  ;  and  George  brought  his  flag. 

NED.     If  it  had  only  been  pleasant  to-day,  I'd  have 

let  it  rain  a  week  afterward. 

GEORGE   (stepping    to    the  window) .      There !  —  it 

pours  !     It's  lucky  we  hurried. 

POLLY.     Now  all  of  you  stay  here  and  keep  May 
day  with  us  (clapping  hands) .     Do,  do  ! 
CAROLINE.     Will  your  mother  like  it? 
POLLY.   *I'H  go  ask  her.     (Huns  out.) 
NED.      Anyway,    you    can't   go    till  it   holds   up. 

(Girls  go  to  the  windotv.) 
ARTHUR.     That  may  not  be  for  a  week.     (Enter 

POLLY  in  haste.) 

POLLY.     She  says  we  may  do  any  thing  but  make 

'lasses-candy. 


THE  YOTOPSKI  FAMILY'S   EEHEAKSAL.      257 

NED.  The  last  time  we  made  it,  father  said  he 
found  some  in  his  slipper- toes. 

(Girls  take  off  hats  and  shaivls,  which,  ivith  baskets, 
&c. ,  are  placed  in  a  corner.  Some  take  seats  with 
some  confusion;  others  remain  standing.) 

ARTHUR.     Now  what  shall  we  do  with  ourselves  ? 

NED.  Let's  get  up  an  entertainment.  Tickets  ten 
cents  ;  grown  folks,  double  price. 

KATE.  So  I  say;  and  call  ourselves  a  u  troupe," 
or  a  "  family/'  or  something. 

GEORGE.     Something  that  has  a  foreign  sound. 

ARTHUR.     How  would  "  Yotopski  "do? 

CAROLINE,  LUCY,  and  ANNA.     Splendid  ! 

ANNA.     Let's  call  ourselves  ' '  The  Yotopski  Family. ' ' 

LUCY.  But  what  shall  we  have  for  our  entertain 
ment? 

POLLY.     I  think  tableaux  are  perfectly  splendid. 

ANNA.  Oh,  I'll  tell  you  !  Have  the  kind  that  winds 
up. 

GEORGE.  Why,  all  entertainments  wind  up  when 
they  are  done. 

ANNA.  I  mean,'  have  each  one  wound  up  with  a 
key,  and  then  they  move. 

ARTHUR.     She  means  Mrs.  Jarley's  Wax-works. 

NED.     All  right.     We'll  have  the  winding  kind. 

CAROLINE.     What  wax-works  shall  we  have  ? 

NED.  We  might  have  William  Tell  shooting  the 
apple,  for  one. 

TOMMY.  I've  seen  that!  'Twill  take  three  to  do 
that,  —  Mr.  Tell,  and  his  son,  and  the  cross  tyrant. 

GEORGE.     And  the  apple  makes  four. 


258  MAY-DAY   INDOORS  ;   OK, 

ANNA.     Who'll  be  Mr.  Tell  ?  —  you,  Ned  ? 

NED.  No ;  I'd  rather  be  the  cross  tyrant :  I  feel 
just  right  for  that.  Arthur'll  be  Mr.  Tell. 

ARTHUR.  Oh,  yes  !  I'll  be  Mr.  Tell ;  and  Tommy 
can  be  the  boy.  (TOMMY  moves  toward  the  door.) 
Where  are -you  going,  Tommy? 

TOMMY  (going  out).     After  my  bow'n'arrow. 

LUCY  (bringing  an  apple  from  her  basket).  Here's 
the  apple. 

CAROLINE.  What  shall  we  do  for  a  feather?  Mr. 
Ten's  hat  must  have  a  feather. 

KATE.  Twist  up  a  piece  of  newspaper.  (Turns 
ARTHUR'S  hat  up  at  one  side,  and  fastens  it  with  a 
twist  of  paper,  left  open  at  the  top.)  There  you  have 
it !  And  Polly's  sack,  turned  wrong  side  out,  will  do 
for  a  tunic. 

(ARTHUR  puts  on  hat  and  sack.     Sack  is  lined  with  a 
bright  color,  or  with  different  colors.) 

POLLY.     He  ought  to  have  a  wide  sash. 

LUCY  (taking  off  hers)-.     Here,  take  mine  ! 

POLLY.     Not  that  kind  of  a  sash ! 

ANNA.     Oh,  that  won't  do  ! 

CAROLINE.     It  should  be  a  scarf. 

NED  (tying  sash  at  the  side,  around  ARTHUR'S  waist). 
Oh  !  never  mind,  we're  only  rehearsing. 

LUCY.  How  must  the  cross  tyrant  be  dressed? 
Who  knows  ? 

ANNA.  The  tyrant  I  saw  had  a  cape  hung  on  one 
shoulder.  A  shawl  will  do -for  that.  (Brings  shawl, 
which  NED  hangs  over  his  left  shoulder.)  Now,  what 
must  he  wear  on  his  head  ? 


THE  YOTOPSKI  FAMILY'S   REHEARSAL.      259 

LUCY.  I  should  think  a  tyrant  ought  to  wear  a  tall 
hat. 

POLLY  (going).     I'll  get  father's. 

ANNA  (to  POLLY)  .  And  something  bright  to  put  on 
it.  I  remember  that  part  plainly. 

GEORGE  (calling  after  POLLY)  .  And  something  long, 
for  a  sword.  (Exit  POLLY.) 

CAROLINE.  If  the  boys  do  that,  can't  we  girls  make 
ourselves  into  wax-works  ? 

ANNA.  Let's  be  a  May-day  wax-work,  singing  and 
dancing  round  a  May-pole. 

GEORGE.     I'll  be  the  pole. 

CAROLINE.     But  you're  not  long  enough. 

GEORGE  (mounting  a  chair) .     Now  I  am ! 

GIRLS  (laughing  and  clapping).  Oh,  yes;  oh,  yes! 
He'll  do  !  Trim  him  up  ;  trim  him  up  ! 

NED  (to  GEORGE).  Yes.  Come  down  and  be 
trimmed  up. 

(GEORGE  steps  down,  stands  erect,  arms  close  to  his 
body.  GIRLS  hand  garlands.  NED  winds  them 
around  GEORGE.) 

KATE,     Shall  we  hoist  the  flag? 

NED.  Oh,  yes !  bring  the  flag.  And  here's  a 
string  (taking  ball  of  string  out  of  pocket)  to  fasten  it 
on  with.  (NED  fastens  the  Jlag -stick  to  GEORGE'S  head 
by  winding  the  string  around,  then  helps  him  mount 
the  chair.)  Three  cheers  for  the  flag  !  Now,  —  One, 
two,  three  !  (All  cheer  and  clap.) 

(Enter  POLLY  with  an  old  hat  and  a  poker.) 

POLLY.  Won't  this  hat  do?  Mother  can't  have 
father's  good  one  banged  about. 


260  MAY-DAY  INDOORS;   OE, 

GEORGE.     Oh !  that's  good  enough.     We're  only  re 
hearsing.     Did  you  get  something  bright  ? 
(NED  puts  on  hat.) 

POLLY  (taking  out  yellow  bandanna  handkerchief). 
Mother  said  this  was  quite  bright. 

ANNA.  Why,  I  meant  something  shiny,  like  a  clasp, 
or  a  buckle. 

KATE.     No  matter :  we're  only  rehearsing. 

(NED  ties  handkerchief  round  the  hat,  so  that  the  cor 
ners  hang  down.)       % 

POLLY  (hands  the  poker).  Here's  your  sword. 
That's  the  longest  thing  I  could  find. 

(All  laugh.     NED  seizes  poker,  and  strikes  a  military 
attitude.     Enter  TOMMY  with  bow  and  arrow.) 

TOMMY.     Where  shall  I  stand  up  ? 

ARTHUR.  Come  this  way  (leads  TOMMY  to  one  side 
the  stage;  NED  follows).  Ned,  you  must  scowl  and 
look  fierce.  Tommy,  fold  your  arms,  and  stand  still 
as  a  post. 

(Puts   apple  on  TOMMY'S  head,  and  takes  aim  with 
bow  and  arrow.) 

TOMMY.  Oh,  I'm  afraid !  Look  out  for  my  eyes ! 
The  arrow  might  go  off  ! 

ARTHUR.     I'll  put  the  apple  in  the  chair. 

(TOMMY  stands  motionless.  ARTHUR  aims  at  apple  in 
the  chair.  NED  stands  by  with  drawn  sword;  then 
all  three  resume  their  former  position.) 

KATE.  Now,  we  girls  must  stand  around  the  May 
pole  (they  gather  around  the  pole) .  Who'll  wind? 


THE  YOTOPSKI  FAMILY'S  KEHEAESAL.      261 

THE  GIRLS.     You,  you,  you ! 

POLLY.  What  a  little  circle !  I  wish  we  had  more 
girls. 

KATE.  So  do  I.  ( To  ANNA.)  How  shall  I  wind 
up  the  wax-works  ? 

ANNA.  The  ones  I  saw  all  stood  on  a  string,  and 
the  string  led  to  a  box  ;  and,  when  the  box  was  wound 
up,  the  wax- works  began  to  act  their  parts.  A  door- 
key  will  do  to  wind  with. 

KATE.     We'll  manage  in  the  same  way. 

(Lays  a  long  string  on  the  floor,  passes  it  under  the 

feet  of  the  wax-works,  and  drops  the  end  of  it  in  a 

work-box  upon  the  table.) 

ARTHUR.  Don't  you  think  you  girls  ought  to  be 
holding  your  posies,  and  your  flags,  and  your  flower- 
baskets,  and  wearing  your  wreaths?  They'll  make 
your  wax-work  look  handsomer. 

CAROLINE.     So  they  will. 

(Girls  get  their  posies,  little  flags,  and  baskets,  take 
wreaths  from  hats,  and  put  them  on  their  heads.) 

ANNA.  You  must  take  a  key,  and  pretend  to  wind 
up  the  machinery.  What  song  shall  we  sing  ? 

LUCY.  "The  merry  month  of  May"  is  perfectly 
splendid. 

CAROLINE.  I  wonder  if  we  know  the  words.  Let's 
try.  (They  sing  a  May-song.) 

KATE.  That's  a  good  song.  Now  then!  All 
ready!  Stand  in  your  places  (gets  the  door-key). 
Arms  folded,  Tommy !  When  I've  done  winding  up, 
Arthur  will  begin  to  take  aim,  Ned  will  begin  to  scowl 
and  to  hold  up  his  sword,  and  you  girls  will  begin  to 


262  MAY-DAY  INDOORS. 

sing  and  dance  around.  Can't  you  hold  your  hands 
high,  so  the  flowers  and  flags  will  show?  (Girls  raise 
their  hands.)  That's  prettier.  Now  all  stand  just  as 
still  as  real  wax-works  till  the  machinery  is  wound  up  ; 
then  begin.  We'll  play,  that,  when  I  throw  up  my 
handkerchief,  the  curtain  falls.  Now  ! 

(KATE  winds  the  machinery,  the  actors  remaining  quiet. 
When  the  winding  stops,  they  begin  to  perform  their 
parts.      When  the  dancers  have  danced  twice  around 
the  circle,  KATE  throws  up  her  handkerchief.) 

(CURTAIN  FALLS.) 

(If  desirable,  more  singing  and  dancing  can  be  intro 
duced  under  pretence  of  practising.) 


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